Saving Grace (3 page)

Harrison nodded, the look in his eyes having changed to the pity Grace had so often seen there since Grandfather’s death. “Your father’s line may be of little consequence, but you’re the granddaughter of a duke, and him not around to have a say about who you end up with.”

And with a father who has no scruples about it.

Harrison would never dare to voice the thought, yet the truth of it was known by all. Grace began walking toward the manor. “Yet again, my status as a lady appears to prove problematic. Perhaps I shall need to take up wearing breeches and riding astride in front of Lidgate. That may dissuade him as well.”

“I wouldn’t plan on that, Miss Thatcher,” Harrison said, falling into step behind her. “Lidgate’s not the type who’ll be concerned with your behavior, nor your mind. He’ll be feasting his eyes, in a manner of speaking.”

A blush heated Grace’s face. “Harrison,” she admonished. “Please.”

“I’m sorry, miss.” He lowered his head, as if to prove he was contrite. “Miranda and I thought you should be forewarned.”

“Thank you,” Grace said. “Please ready the carriage. I shall be but a few minutes.” She left Harrison near the base of the stairs and began the climb, the joy from her morning success all but gone.

Before nightfall she would be faced with yet another man, one likely worse than Lord Crosby. A man who wasn’t afraid of women, but one she might have every reason to fear.

For the second time in as many days, Grace sat in the mud. Yesterday, it had been an unruly sorrel mare that had dislodged her into a thicket. But just now, feeling rather dazed, half sitting, half lying in the mire, with rain falling steadily through the dark, she could not place the cause of her current circumstance.

“Miss Thatcher, are you all right?” Harrison called to her from somewhere above.

“I am both well enough and
wet
enough,” she managed to say before a coughing fit seized her, rattling her entire body and paralyzing her to all but the barest ability to breathe.

“You don’t sound well,” Harrison said, concern in his voice. “Sit tight — supposing you’re sitting, that is — and I’ll fetch you shortly.”

And take me where?
Grace lifted a hand to her aching head, stopping herself just in time when she realized that muck covered her palm. “Harrison,” she called through the black. “Where are we? Where is Miranda?”

“Here,” Miranda called, sounding somewhat less than
here.

“We’ve gone off the road en route to Mr. Preston’s,” Harrison said. “The carriage tipped, and you with it.” Horses’ whinnying and the grating of slow-turning wheels confirmed his story.

That explains it,
Grace thought, rationalizing that her entire body ached because of the spill from the carriage and not her worsening illness. But who was Mr. Preston, and what on earth had she been going to see him for?

Did Grandfather send me — in the dead of night? Of course not.
She stilled, this time crippled by a pain much greater than her persistent cough.

Grandfather could not have sent me because he’s — Dead. I was on my way to see Mr. Preston, the next man in the line of potential suitors, because Father needs money. The only way he knows of to obtain that money is for Helen or me to marry.
Grace groaned, wishing she hadn’t tried so hard to recollect.

Miranda reached her side. “Are you hurt? Here’s my cloak. Put it around you.”

“You use it.” Grace batted the fabric away. “Cover yourself. I am quite well.” It wasn’t an entire falsehood. As best she could tell she’d suffered no grave injuries in the fall. The real damage had come during the previous week during that wretched visit to Sir Lidgate’s.
Grace shuddered, and gooseflesh sprang up along her arms — not from the cold but from fear and tonight’s narrow escape.

Harrison slid down the embankment toward them. “Nearly there!”

“What caused the accident?” Grace asked, taking the hand he offered and struggling to her feet. She tested each foot carefully, lest one of her ankles had been twisted in the fall.

“Horse got spooked and took off sudden,” Harrison said. “Pulled us clear to the side. The road turned sharp, and afore I knew it, we were tipping.”

Miranda took up the tale. “Threw us both against the door, and that wouldn’t have been too bad. But we’d barely stopped when the latch broke, spilling us into this bog.”

“Well, I’m right thankful for the muck,” Harrison said, his voice grave. “It likely softened your fall considerable. Elsewise, you’d both have been hurt much worse.”

“Or — had Father not sold the fine carriage Grandfather left me and forced this miserable one upon us — we mightn’t have been hurt at all,” Grace grumbled.

Neither Harrison nor Miranda replied. As a lady’s maid, Miranda was everything prim and would not deem it proper to share an opinion. Harrison might have, but never around Miranda.
Their silence only served to make Grace feel more isolated in some half-class, where servants regarded her as their superior, but her peers did not find her equal.

Dwelling on either her father’s shortcomings or her own confused place in the world was of no use, so Grace wiped her muddy hands as best she could and carefully started up the slope. Of more concern was making certain she remained
in the world. At the moment, she felt awful enough that her very existence was quite possibly in danger.

My fever is growing worse,
Grace concluded as a shiver wracked her. The steady rain intensified to a downpour, plastering her hair to the sides of her face. It did not seem as if things could get much worse, but she well knew they could, were her illness to turn more serious.

Perhaps it is already more serious.
She tried to tell herself it wasn’t, to ignore the twinge in her chest each time she drew breath.

To her servants, she said drily, “I seem to be developing a rather grand talent for getting thrown out of places.” She bent over, coughing again. Both Harrison and Miranda fussed over her, clucking their concern and trying to shield her from the rain.

“Never mind all that,” Grace said when her coughing fit had subsided. “I’m right as ... rain.” She attempted a feeble smile, though she doubted either could fully see it or appreciate her effort in the dark. “Please help me back to the carriage. Though I’m loath to see our journey’s end, I daresay a visit to Mr. Preston’s will be better than this.”

“It’s not so easy as all that.” Harrison held her elbow, steadying her as they made their way across the slippery grass to the road above. “We’ve a broken wheel, and the carriage is straddling the side of the road. I don’t trust it enough to even set you inside to wait out the rain.”

“A fine kettle,” Miranda scolded Harrison, as if the accident were his fault. “And Miss Thatcher worse yet, out in this cold. She’ll catch her death.”

“We both know that
isn’t
an option,” Grace said. Though just now, were it not for Helen, Grace might have thought death would be an improvement over her current situation. She forced back another cough, then pulled her wet traveling cloak tighter. In its current state, it wasn’t likely to provide any warmth, but she had to at least feel as if she was doing something to preserve her health.

Because Helen needs me.
Grace turned to Harrison, who was slightly more visible now that they’d left the hollow. “What is to be done?”

“We’ll have to leave the carriage, but if you’re fit for riding, we can find shelter. There are lights not too far distant.”

Grace peered in the direction of his outstretched arm. Through the rain she thought she could make out the barest pinprick of light.

“Are you quite certain?” she asked. “Is that still in England? It looks as if it might be across the Channel or on some other continent entirely.” In truth it could have been a star in the sky for all she could make out. But her head hurt, so her vision was beginning to blur. “I fear I am
not
fit for riding,” she said, swaying dizzily.

Miranda’s arm came around her waist, steadying her. “I’ll — I’ll ride with ye. We’ll make out all right.”

“Very well, but first I must — sit. Just for a moment.” She slid from Miranda’s grasp to the muddy road below.

“There, there. Put your head on your knees. Just like that.” Harrison helped her into the unladylike, but more comfortable, position. Grace pressed her forehead to her kneecaps, searching for a little relief from the relentless pounding in her head.

Were Lord Crosby to see me now …
Had she not already ruined her chances with him, seeing her like this certainly would have done it.

Beside her she heard scuffling and grunts as Harrison unharnessed the horses. This was followed by a good deal of complaining from Miranda.

“When’s the last time your backside set on a horse?” Harrison asked her.

“When I was a girl at home riding with my pa,” Miranda said. “And never you mind how long ago that was.”

“Knew it,” Harrison muttered. “I’ll be riding with Miss Thatcher then. You can break your neck on your own.”

Grace heard the sound of a hand meeting horse flesh, and then Miranda gave a little screech as her mount loped away.

“Come along now.”

Grace lifted her head to look at Harrison bent in front of her. “Won’t do for you to be in the cold any longer than necessary. Let me help you up.” He held out his hand.

“Thank you,” Grace murmured, though she almost wished he’d leave her here. Any movement was painful, and mounting a horse seemed an impossible task.

Harrison lifted her, carrying her a short distance before gently setting her down, standing this time. He placed one of her hands on the horse. “Steady yourself there, if you’d like. He won’t go anywhere.”

Grace did as Harrison had suggested, leaning against the animal.

“Stand here a moment while I mount,” Harrison said. “Then I’ll pull you up.”

Grace peered dubiously at the horse. In the moonlight, its tall back was slicked with rain. There seemed no way she’d be able to reach such a height. Harrison stepped onto a before-unseen boulder, reached up, and grabbed the animal’s mane, hoisting himself up with far more poise than Grace was certain she’d have.

“Your turn.” Harrison leaned over, arm extended. “That’s it. Step there. Hold tight ...”

Grace did as he’d instructed and felt herself slowly rising as he pulled her up. For her part, she did her best to reach as she’d seen Harrison do. After a long minute of awkward struggle on both their parts, she found herself seated side-saddle — minus the saddle — in front of him.

“Whew.” Harrison ran a hand across his brow, then wrapped his arms around her so she wouldn’t fall.

Miranda called out from the other side of the road. “If the duke had witnessed that painful bit of chivalry, he would have dismissed you on the spot and hired a man thirty years younger.”

“He’d be getting but an infant then,” Harrison tossed back easily.

Those two.
A wan smile curved Grace’s lips. It was plain as the nose on her face that they cared for each other, yet the closest they came to admitting it was vying for the worst insult.

Grace leaned back slightly, ever so grateful to close her eyes. “Thank you for keeping me safe,” she murmured as she drifted toward sleep.

“Improper if ever I —” Miranda huffed. “If you think to ride up to an estate like that —”

“I think to keep Miss Thatcher alive,” Harrison shouted above the clop of the horses’ hooves.

“And her things?” Miranda asked. “Are we to leave them behind for whatever beggar happens upon them?”

“Leave them,” Grace said, the two words taking every ounce of energy she seemed to possess. At the moment, she didn’t care a fig about her garments — new and lovely though some of them were. Miranda’s warning about catching her death rang in her pounding head. She felt fever afflicting her now, in spite of the cooling rain. Beneath her soaked clothing, she shivered, and their journey became a wearying kind of torture. Her head lolled against Harrison’s shoulder as she flitted in and out of an uneasy sleep.

“At last,” Miranda called sometime later, partially lifting the fog from Grace’s mind.

She glanced up and noticed that the lights were closer. There weren’t many, but they did appear to be coming from an estate large enough that it might be expected to handle unexpected guests — assuming it was a friendly sort of place. In the black of night, the stone walls loomed over them ominously. What little Grace could make of the grounds seemed wild and overgrown, and the whole feel of the dwelling was that of a long-abandoned castle inhabited by spirits of the past.

Before Grace could voice her worry, Miranda began a fit of coughing.

“You’re sounding as unwell as I,” Grace said. “Remember we’re in this together. I could not get on without either of you.”

“And we cannot get on without
you
,” Harrison said, his voice gruff.

“No worry of that,” she assured them, though she felt ill enough that her doubts had grown serious. “I’ve got Helen to think of. And I’ll do whatever is necessary —”

“To keep her safe,” all three vowed together.