Rescuing Mr. Gracey (28 page)

Irritated, restless, she let her gaze roam over the lush velvet seats. She had never sat on velvet before.

“What is your middle name, Miss Smyth?” Isabella asked, interrupting her disturbed thoughts. Mary turned. Isabella was smiling. Alec’s smile…

For Alec’s life, she would endure this torment. “Frances, ma’am.”

“If you have no objection, whilst in the manor, I will be referring to you as Miss Mary Frances, an acquaintance of mine and a student of the healing arts.”

Regardless of what he had done, Mary would not let him die. No. She would probably do far worse than pretend to be a family friend and a Protestant for his sake. Biting her lower lip, she nodded agreement.

Relief rinsed some worry from Isabella’s expression. Touching Mary’s arm, she leaned forward. “We have much to discuss and must reach certain understandings.”

Rapid instructions flowed as if memorized. Mary was never to speak Gaelic nor give any indication of her faith, especially the sign of the cross or referral to the pope, even if provoked or insulted. “For Alec’s sake and your own protection, Mary.”

Mary glanced down at her tightly clenched, marble-white hands. Her thoughts drifted over the past two months. Alec likely endured many insults during her family conversations and jokes. And then there were the sacrifices—helping her father with an Anglican crop, employing her brother, helping her sister to sail to America.

An angry ember burned beneath her worry. Knowing who she was, he should never have attended the dance in the first place, or come to the field, or, most especially, escorted her in the evening.

How could he have been so careless? He’d played with her as an intriguing toy before becoming bored and discarding it like a spoiled rich boy. She wondered about his motive. Was he naturally gallant, or did he just need a Catholic project to ease a guilty conscience?

Mary shivered from a frosty fear that spread through her like ice. Yet he was sick, possibly dying.

God’s will, she would heal him. And then slap him. And then slam the door in his face.

Inhaling, Mary forced her hands to release their locked grip and refocused on Isabella’s information about his family—four sisters, all married to men of influence. His education included a doctorate degree in botany and agricultural science, but with a hope that he would, someday, carry on the family legacy at the mill.

A shudder traveled from her neck down her spine. She knew all too well about the Gracey legacy!

Mary’s hands twitched with the urge to cover her ears and flee, screaming against the picture Isabella painted. For two months, he had lived a double life, wealthy son of a merchant playing on the wrong side of a hill.

“Given all I have told you, you understand the need to disguise your identity from Mr. Gracey. Otherwise, you will be distrusted and not allowed free rein in our home.” Isabella’s gray eyes skimmed Mary’s cloak and dress. “My daughters, all married now, left behind many dresses that are still fashionable. You are a bit thinner than they, but I am sure no one but a woman would notice.”

Enduring Alec’s father might be the most terrifying sacrifice. Everyone in Dolly’s Brae feared the Graceys, and she was no exception. Since they were powerful, known to embarrass or humiliate natives at any opportunity, she imagined Mr. Gracey to be a cruel ogre, dripping with the blood of Catholic martyrs
.

Mary swallowed hard. Reflexively, she shrank into the seat. “I’m worried your husband will see through your plans.” Her voice sounded like a small child’s. “I don’t know if I can pretend sufficient to fool him.”

Isabella smiled, her head tilted sympathetically. “Think of Mr. Gracey as a loud dog without any teeth. I know his reputation says otherwise, but he desperately loves his family, and you will find him a very generous man to those whom he owes gratitude.”

The carriage careened around a corner, and the town of Castlewellan came into view. Never having seen the streets from a carriage, she was surprised by how quickly they rushed through the lower square.

“What will happen should Mr. Gracey not be grateful? If something bad happens to…”

Isabella shook her head. “We will not think of that. But I am introducing you as a family friend for your protection.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Alec will recover once he knows you are there. I know he will.”

A slight frown upon her brow, Isabella shifted her focus out the window before saying distractedly, “However, do not confide your true identity inside the manor.” Her expression cleared when she looked back at Mary. She smiled. “Please know that I will protect you.”

The sun had just risen above the crest of the hill as the coach climbed the road toward the upper square. The frightening shadows of night conceded their power to bright daylight. Mary had never seen the upper square in the morning. She nibbled her lip as they approached the last hill, vast green lawns and colorful flowers displayed in full glory.

’Tis not so scary
,
Mary Smyth.
She was an educated woman and capable of proper decorum. If she were cautious, especially with the slip of her accent, she should be out of the house within two or three days. How much trouble could she get into in that small amount of time?

“Of course, we must be more vigilant should the earl visit,” Isabella commented distractedly. “He is Alec’s sponsor for Parliamentary office and is not known for his…”

“What?” Mary whispered, her stomach clenched. “What did you say?” Her hand trembled as she flattened it upon an erratic heart. “Did ya say, helping…the earl? The earl who persecutes us is Alec’s sponsor?”

Too late realizing her mistake, Isabella bobbed her head. “Forgive me. I am so tired.” She rubbed her forehead and sighed. “Yes. Alec is running for political office under sponsorship of the earl. I know this must come as a shock, but understand that lately, he has opposed both the earl and his father and even refused to march for the Twelfth…”

She was gasping. She wanted to bolt from the carriage and run back up the hill. She wanted to dive into the lake and stay there, frozen under the water until her ears stopped ringing the words
betrayer, betrayer, betrayer
.

The earl!

Her family had trusted Alec, had shared everything—worries, hopes, plans for the future—at the kitchen table. They’d talked politics and religion and even about their dislike of the earl.

The coach jolted to a stop. Isabella held her back a moment and waited for the driver to scatter the different staff members away. They were hiding her, Mary realized.

Clenching her teeth to stop them from chattering, she watched the Graceys’ servant open the door to the carriage and lower the steps. Mary pushed stray hair inside her hood and clutched her cloak against her chest. Dizziness overwhelmed her, but Isabella’s firm hand clasped her elbow.

“Show me the Irish courage you so famously tout,” she whispered, smiling.

Tilting up her chin, she determined that as soon as Alec was healed, perhaps before he fully recovered—in fact, as soon as opened his beautiful blue eyes, she intended to slap his face with such furor he may never arise from bed again.
And then flee. And never, ever see him again…ever.

Isabella guided her through the front door of Gracey Manor, a glittery piece of heaven. Never in her life had Mary seen such opulence. The elegance stunned—sparkles and marble and crystal, thick rugs and heavy wood. The impressive beauty paralyzed her with awe.

The family coat of arms, a fighting lion with a knight’s helmet, sneered at her from its prominent spot on the entrance wall. Directly beneath was a hefty plaque extolling Gracey’s devotion to the causes of the Order of Orange.

Her feet stuttered on the marble floor.
Flee, Mary Smyth. These are the people who kill your own…

Isabella urged her forward. Three stories of extravagant wealth rose above her. A chandelier glared down from the domed ceiling. Spiked hallways, cold and marbled, shot off in all directions like spider legs, a wide parlor bowled to the right, and a dark-paneled library opened to the left.

Her shoulders slumped under the weight of so much wealth. The entire village of Dolly’s Brae would fit inside this home. The windows beamed light from each of the levels on the south side, but there was no warmth, no life. She knew dozens of people scurried about the home, but it appeared vacant of any life, and though rows of rooms ran along the sides of the staircase on each level, she almost groaned with loneliness.

And, looking around at the lavish surroundings, her resentment grew. Alec pitied her. All along she’d thought him so very generous, when, truthfully, he’d barely dipped his hand into the vast treasures that overflowed his life.

A muffled snore distracted her. Mrs. Gracey leaned forward, a finger at her lips. The elder Gracey, unaware that the two women tiptoed up the circular stairs, slept in the overstuffed leather chair in the library. Isabella urged her forward, up the stairs, down the hall.

“This is where you will stay, my dear,” Mrs. Gracey said as she glided into a huge bedroom on the second floor. “There is a basin and a mirror there, a brush and silver combs.” Flinging wide several doors, opening heavily brocaded curtains, touching items as she described them, Isabella’s hurried motions indicated her restrained anxiety.

“Chose any dress you wish,” Isabella said, opening the large wardrobe and revealing an array of dresses—every color, every style—crammed into the large space. “I will send a lady’s maid to attend you.” She tossed underclothes and other delicates upon the bed, then turned and surveyed her coconspirator. “You should wear these before the maid enters, however. The servants will wonder at the mystery otherwise.”

Pride, Mary’s greatest enemy, raised its ugly head. This house, this life, represented too much stolen from her people. “I can certainly dress myself.” She shook her head. “I don’t need a lady’s maid.”

Isabella lifted a brow. “Miss Smyth…” She pressed her lips together as if to hold the name inside forever. Sighing, she folded her hands and touched Mary. “I do appreciate what I ask of you. For Alec’s sake, we must all make sacrifices while forbidding pride to interfere. To do otherwise may kill him and endanger your family.”

Mary startled. Pride was always her greatest fault. Teary-eyed, she nodded.
But then he’ll hear from me, he will.

“I know ’twill be awkward, especially since we have just met. Yet Alec has spoken of you so fondly, and I know you are an exceptional woman. I would not ask this of you otherwise. However, you must trust me and accept my tutelage regarding our customs and lifestyle even if it makes you uncomfortable. Having a lady’s maid attend you is very important. Otherwise, the staff will whisper.”

Nibbling her lip, Mary knew she blushed.
For Alec…for Alec’s life.
Even if she hated him, she could not just let him die. Having a lady’s maid, likely a person as poor as she, was not a heavy burden. She nodded again.

“Good. I will meet you in the room across the hall.” The graceful lady whisked from the room, leaving Mary alone in the massive space.

The room reminded her of a pleasant garden. The four-poster bed, layered with an abundance of pillows and a stitched rose cover, matched the delicate pink flowered walls that papered the expansive space.

Slipping from her shoes, she allowed her bare toes to curl into the cream-and-red embroidered rug that warmed the floor. Her dress fell from her thin frame next. She picked up both and stuffed them into her little cloth bag. Tracing her worn and mended chemise with a finger, Mary let that drop next.

By contrast, the delicate satin-and-lace chemise waiting on the elegant bed looked so inviting.

Muscles tensed as she slipped into the underwear and waited for the lady’s maid. Anxious to be with Alec, she walked to the window seat adjacent to the bed and sat, contemplating the stunning view. A peaceful garden lay below, and Mary thought how odd to use good land for flowers and trees. Yet the luxury was a lovely thing to behold, even though it was wasteful.

Stepping hesitantly around the room, Mary made note of the writing desk, quills, paper, ink. She fingered the wealth of clothing inside the large wardrobe, each item made from the finest silks and linens and cottons and muslin. Day dresses, evening dresses, and ballroom dresses. Just one of these tailored, hand-sewn gowns cost more than Mary’s family earned in
 
several years.

Wrapping chilled arms about her stomach, she began to regret agreeing to the lady’s maid.
What are ya doin’, Mary Smyth?
Had they forgotten her? She could have been dressed and in Alec’s room by now.

Just then, a tap at the door startled her. A small woman no older than Mary entered the room and curtseyed.

Mary hated this. Tilting her head, she rebuked the instinct to release a very unladylike roar. “Good day, miss. Me name’s Betsy, and I was told ya just arrived from a long travel. Sorry to keep ya waitin’.”

Trying to imagine herself a fine lady with stuck-up airs, Mary pointed to the simplest gown—a patterned lime-green linen—fashioned, as was the latest style, with a lacy dip along the neck, a fitted bodice to the hips, and a flare of skirts to the floor. The green-patterned petticoat fell farther down, and the large belled sleeves flared delicately over her hands.

Mary submitted to foreign hands touching her, and tight bodices binding her, and low necklines exposing her. The maid buttoned and fluffed while Mary’s impatience grew.