Saving Grace (34 page)

Nicholas wondered how it was that he hadn’t known of her talent before.
How is it that we have lived weeks beneath the same roof, and until now I’ve not heard her sing?
He allowed his eyes to close briefly as he listened, relaxing, feeling the cares of life slip away beneath her spellbinding song. The animal began to calm and finally stood still.

Leave now. Move, Grace.
When she did not heed his silent commands, Nicholas took a step forward, intent on removing her from danger. The cow’s tale twitched, and she tossed her head back. Miss Thatcher turned looked over her shoulder and caught his eye, sending him a disapproving look. Nicholas motioned for her to back up, to come to him, to safety. She shook her head and returned to the cow and her song, edging closer until the animal was again calm and she was close enough to reach out and stroke its spotted back.

Nicholas held his breath, expecting imminent disaster. If the animal kicked, Grace would likely end up breaking a bone or worse.

Please don’t.
This time, his silent plea was answered. The cow did nothing save gently nudge Miss Thatcher’s outstretched hand.

“There, girl, see? It’s all right. We just want to help you.” Miss Thatcher moved slowly as she spoke, retrieving an overturned stool and pail. These she set beside the cow, close to its hind legs, and gathered her skirts aside, as if to sit.

No!
Nicholas felt like shouting but didn’t dare. The barn had grown completely silent, as if the other animals were as awed by the performance as the people.

Miss Thatcher sat as delicately as if she were seating herself on a throne, and soon the sound of milk pinging into the empty pail made a sweet accompaniment to her continued melody.

“Well, I’ll be,” someone farther back said. Murmurs of agreement and admiration rippled around Nicholas. Some left the barn, likely returning to their own chores now that the excitement was over. Nicholas stayed until Miss Thatcher had finished milking, thanked the cow, and hauled the overflowing bucket far enough from the beast that another lad was brave enough to come close and take it from her.

Nicholas was right behind him and reached out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward him.

“What were you thinking?” He stared at her hard, expecting an apology for her lack of judgment. “You might have been kicked in the head or trampled or —”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you.” Her voice was calm and unapologetic. With her free hand, she removed his fingers from her wrist. “I regret to say, however, that you do not look well at all.” She brushed past him out to the yard, where Thom Wallace doffed his hat and thanked her profusely.

“I thought for certain we’d lost her,” he said. “And without a cow this winter — well, let’s just say it would have been terrible hard on the children.”

“I know,” Miss Thatcher said, and Nicholas suspected she very well did.

She squeezed Thom Wallace’s outstretched hand as she smiled up at him. “Just treat her gently, and she’ll take to you. The move to a new owner was a bit of a shock is all, I imagine. I think she’ll do just fine now.”

“If she doesn’t, will you come back to milk her later?” someone called.

“No, she will not,” Nicholas answered for her. He stepped up beside Miss Thatcher, placing his hand at her elbow. “It’s time we were off.”

“Of course.” Her next smile was for him, and Nicholas detected no trace of anger in it, though he knew he’d likely upset her back there in the barn.

She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and allowed him to escort her to the carriage, bidding farewell to those they left behind as if she’d had their acquaintance for years. He handed her up and went around to the other side, half wondering as he did if she might gather the reins and drive off without him.

Behind the curricle, a woman stopped him. “Oh Lord Sutherland, it’s as I said it would be. Just as I told you. I’m so glad.”

Nicholas stared at the woman, a short little thing with wisps of hair flying from her bun and a thin shawl gathered tight around hunched shoulders. It took him a moment to realize where he’d seen her before — and to what she was referring
.

The not-so-timid washerwoman who tried to offer me advice
. He felt a new respect for her profession, having learned the details, from Grace, of what it took to clean clothing. He glanced down at the woman’s hands and saw that they were chapped and dry.

“There’ll be happiness again at Sutherland Hall, mark my words,” she said. “You’ll see. It’s her that’s going to bring it.” She inclined her head toward the carriage.

“Yes. Well, we’ll see,” Nicholas said stiffly. He wasn’t used to conversing with his tenants like this — especially with the women. He bid her farewell, but she stared after him, her face folded into a look that was a mixture of disappointment and pity.

Nicholas sensed he’d done wrong, but he had no idea what he should have said or done differently. Instead he told himself that he’d double the woman’s pay and see that Miss Thatcher had some new gowns made so there would be more clothing to launder.

She had not driven off without him, and she hadn’t said anything as they started down the lane toward the main road. In his mind, Nicholas reviewed the events in the barn, and his anger returned. He snapped the reins harder than necessary, and the carriage lurched forward.

“You shouldn’t have done that. You might have been killed.”

Miss Thatcher smiled as if he’d said something droll.

“What” — he demanded — “do you find so amusing about the situation?”

“It’s not the situation,” she explained. “There is nothing the least bit humorous about the possibility of losing one’s cow just before winter. A good cow can be the difference between starvation and survival.”

“Then what
are
you smiling about?” he asked, feeling more out of sorts by the minute.

“You scolded your mother in the same manner at breakfast once. You told her she shouldn’t have chided me as she did.”

“You heard that?” Nicholas’s anger merged with unease, forming a heavy weight in his stomach.

Has Grace known Mother’s intentions all along?

“What else have you overheard?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She turned to face him, and he could see that she spoke the truth. He was starting to suspect that Grace was not capable of being anything but truthful.

“It is not my habit to eavesdrop,” she said. “I happened to overhear what you said that day only because your tone was rather loud and — reprimanding.”

Relief swept through Nicholas, followed swiftly by guilt. He
had
plotted with his mother for that day to be a dismal failure, for Grace to return home overwhelmed and defeated when she realized that no one would respect or accept her at Sutherland Hall. He’d never felt so grateful to be wrong.

I have been so wrong about many things.

“And my reprimand amuses you?”

“Merely the tone you used with me.” Her mouth quirked in a half-smile. “It was quite different from your kindness to me upon your homecoming yesterday. However, both sentiments indicate your concern and lead me to believe that you are not as unfeeling as I first judged you to be. Therefore —” Her lips curved upward. “I smile.”

Nicholas had no reply. He sat stiff and straight on the seat and focused on guiding the horses, though they well knew the way. The things Miss Thatcher said and did were entirely untoward. No well-bred woman would have had the nerve to call him unfeeling to his face or to admit to overhearing a private conversation. Nicholas knew he
ought
to feel extremely put out, but for some odd reason, her behavior was having the opposite effect.

He’d never again doubt whether she spoke truth. He’d only need to be wary of what he asked, knowing that her answer — especially regarding his character — might prove unpleasant to hear. He realized suddenly what it was about her manner that he — and likely everyone else they’d encountered today — was attracted to.

Miss Thatcher is unaffected by the world and her position in it.

She’d come to the upper class too late in life to behave as selfishly as most ladies did. She didn’t act as the privileged, spoiled woman he’d first assumed her to be. She didn’t expect the world to pity her misfortunes, and she wasn’t above trimming a rose bush that needed it or helping one of his tenants.

She is not cowed by Mother
.

It was this startling contrast that Nicholas suspected he was beginning to admire. He’d never met a woman like Miss Thatcher — one who kept him on his toes and whose brilliant unpredictability was proving the perfect antidote for his grief. Grief, he realized, that had lessened in the past weeks.

When did my thoughts turn from Elizabeth — and Preston — to Miss Thatcher, to Grace?
Nicholas wasn’t certain, but he could not deny that it was she who had been most on his mind of late. Grace, who was slowly filling the void in his heart.

“You’re terribly quiet,” she ventured. “Have I offended you?”

Nicholas laughed. “Anyone else would be tripping over themselves apologizing.”

“One need never apologize for helping someone or speaking the truth,” Grace said. “But if I have worried you or hurt your feelings, I do regret it. If what I said was unpleasant to hear, may I suggest something Grandfather once told me?”

“Please do,” Nicholas said, wondering what bit of sage wisdom she might impart.

“Grandfather said that whenever I felt that something in my character was lacking, it was my responsibility to change it.”

No pity in that family. None.
“So if I don’t like being called
unfeeling
, it is up to me to do something about it?”

“Precisely,” Grace said.

“What do you suggest?” Nicholas asked, eager for her response.

“Well.” She considered a moment. “In your case, I think you may want to work on being the exact opposite. Try to become the most
feeling
man possible. Try kindness.”

The suggestion hurt more than her original insult.
Try kindness.
He thought he had been.

“All right,” he said at last.

“And now you must tell me something I am to work on,” Grace said. Her hands were folded primly in her lap, though he noticed that her gloves had been off for quite some time — odd, as she typically wore them while driving.

“Where are your gloves?” Nicholas asked. “Have you left them somewhere?”

Her brow furrowed, and she tucked her hands in the folds of her dress. “You wish me to improve on wearing my gloves?”

He laughed again. “No. I do not wish you to hide your hands, either. You are far too conscious of them. I only wish to know if we need to return somewhere to retrieve the gloves. See? I am trying to be kind.”

“In that case, well done.” She clapped her gloveless hands. “No need to worry over going back. I gave the gloves to a little girl who admired them.”

“What — why?” Nicholas looked over, appraising her. As mindful of her hands as she’d confessed to being — with their evidence of the hard life she’d endured — she’d given the gloves, something she valued, to another. He felt truly astonished. “What else have you given away?”

She paused a second too long for her answer to be quite believable, in spite of the fact that he’d already convinced himself that she was incapable of lying.

“Nothing. I have given nothing away.” She looked at her lap. “But I thank you for your concern. It is touching. And I know you are kind, deep inside where it matters.”

“Is that a
compliment
I hear from your lips?” he teased, worrying that he’d said something wrong, though he couldn’t fathom what that might be. But her sudden switch to silence had him concerned.

“Indeed it was a compliment.” Miss Thatcher took a deep breath and faced him once more, bestowing a tenuous smile on him. “You
are
kind. I’ve seen evidence of such all day. You arranged to have roofs patched before winter. Offered a higher price than is at market for livestock. Fetched a doctor for the little boy with the cough ...” Her voice trailed off as their eyes met.

Nicholas leaned back, stunned by her revelation. And here he thought he’d been the only one doing the watching. He felt inexplicably warmed by the thought of her tracking his movements, being aware of his doings throughout the day.

“I fear that you are not at all the ogre I first believed you to be.” Her grin widened, and Nicholas caught a merry twinkle in her eye.

She is teasing me! Miss Thatcher — Grace — is flirting. With me.
Nicholas had seen this sort of play between couples before, but never had he had such attentions directed at himself, at least not from one of whom he desired it.

And I do wish it from her,
he realized with some consternation. He tried to steer their dialogue elsewhere, to a place where his thoughts might not be so focused on those long lashes or the pert lips awaiting his response.

“Have you feared me very much then?” he asked, knowing well enough what her answer would be. He’d read fear in her eyes a time or two, from that first night he’d railed at her in his room, to the afternoon in his study when he’d informed her of their betrothal, to the day of the flower garden incident, when he’d accused her of purposefully butchering his sister’s roses.

“You know I have,” she said.

Nicholas suspected she also knew that he felt uncomfortable with their banter. Her mischievous look had fled, bringing him both satisfaction and disappointment.

She let out a sigh that sounded rather discouraged. “But no longer. I will not fear you anymore. I’ve seen the true man you are inside, and though you may continue to try to hide him from me, I know he is still there.
You
are there.”

“
I
fear that you are wrong,” Nicholas said. He flicked the reins half-heartedly. During their conversation, he’d all but forgotten to drive, so the team plodded along at a snail’s pace. “My soul is black. There is no hope for it. Whereas you ...” He turned to her. “You are aptly named, Miss Thatcher — Grace. May I call you by your given name?”

Her smile was instantaneous. “I would like that very much.”