Not by Sight (11 page)

8

“Well, ladies, today is the day we begin to make hay!” Mrs. Vance stood beside the breakfast table and made the announcement to a round of cheers.

Grace leaned forward in her chair. Though she anticipated today’s outing with Lord Roxwood, their excitement was contagious.

“Young will hitch up the team and the mower blade and start cutting a section of the north field.” Mrs. Vance addressed Lucy, then turned to eye Agnes and Becky. “Pierpont and Simmons, you’ll walk along behind the mower with rakes and spread the cuttings out to help them dry.”

“Lucy, shall I help you with the horses?” Grace asked.

“No need,” Mrs. Vance spoke up. “Lucy will do just fine. You go along and drive your Lord Roxwood around.”

“He is not
my
Lord Roxwood,” Grace insisted, blushing. Lucy and Becky smiled at her, while Agnes pursed her lips and Clare wore a mischievous expression.

“I don’t know, Grace. You’ve been d-driving him around for days. I’m surprised you aren’t wearing Roxwood livery by now,” Lucy said.

“Yes, then she can come out to the pasture and bale hay in her jodhpurs, jacket, and fancy cap once she’s finished with him in the mornings,” Clare said with a wink.

Peals of laughter broke out around the table, including Agnes, who flashed a wide grin.

“That’s enough, ladies.” Mrs. Vance said to Grace, “You’ll get your chance at haymaking later today, Mabry. Once you finish at the manor, grab a rake and join the others in the north field.” Her hazel eyes sparkled. “And wear your WFC uniform, please.”

Grace hid a smile as she rose from her chair and left the kitchen to more howls of laughter. She realized how much she enjoyed their camaraderie, even the teasing. It meant they had accepted her. She had indeed become one of them.

———

“Shall I ask the first question today?” Grace steered the Daimler in a northerly direction once they passed the gatehouse, per Lord Roxwood’s instruction.

“How did you find the good reverend’s sermon yesterday?”

He spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. Nevertheless, she was determined to keep her patience. “Inspiring,” she replied.

Quickly she veered the car to avoid hitting a rut in the road. The track wasn’t nearly as smooth as the other roads they had traveled. “Reverend Price spoke about faith and how life’s difficulties can undermine our Christian belief if we allow it.”

Grace thought she heard him scoff behind the steel mesh. “It’s true, though, isn’t it?” she said. “Look at the calamities of the world we read about in the newspapers. So much theft and murder, even I find myself doubting the so-called ‘goodness of men’ and wonder how God allows such things to happen. But Reverend Price says that’s the time we must stand fast. When bad things occur, it’s the devil working to shake our belief. We
have to look to our hearts for the truth and not at what the world does. ‘We live by faith, not by sight.’”

As she spoke, Grace failed to miss the next large rut. The car gave a lurch as they drove over it.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Mabry, but please keep your eyes focused on the road instead of heaven. Because if you plan to hit each and every pothole from here to Scotland, my breakfast will soon make an unplanned reappearance. Now, let us change the subject.”

Grace stiffened. “You did ask.”

“To my utmost regret,” he muttered.

Forgive him,
Lord.
Truly she’d never met such a disrespectful man. “All right, we’ll begin again with my question.” She had decided to start with a less personal one to draw him out. “How long has your family owned Roxwood Manor?”

From the corner of her eye she saw him turn to her. “The estate has been in our family for generations. My great-grandfather, Stonebrooke’s third earl, received the estate from Queen Victoria as a reward for some personal favor.” He paused. “What shade of red is it?”

“What?”

“Your hair,” he said. “Is it red like fire . . . or like a carrot? Or is it the color of rust?”

Grace hadn’t thought much about it. “It’s just . . . red.”

“You must do better than that, Miss Mabry. I cannot see it, so therefore you must tell me.” He leaned toward her. “Well?”

Grace thought a moment, then brightened as an image came to her. “It’s like a fresh cup of steaming Assam.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Assam tea. Just after it steeps and is poured into a delicate bone-china cup.” She heard another noise from behind the mask and frowned. “Oh, I forgot. You’re a man who prefers drinking Scotch. But surely not for breakfast?”

“Of course not, though I prefer the taste of coffee beans to tea leaves, so I’ll take your word on the color of this Assam. And what about your eyes? Are they green like the ivy clinging to the sides of the house, or the infernal moss that sticks to the walkways?”

“I believe it’s my turn to ask a question. How do you manage so easily?” She hesitated, then said, “You seem to remember so much—you move about your home and the grounds without assistance. As we travel, I notice you seem aware of the placement of each tree and body of water. How do you do it?”

“Being blind, you mean?”

“Exactly.” She refused to be cowed by his tone.

He didn’t speak for a while. Grace feared their question game had come to an abrupt end. At last, he said, “I told you I spent my childhood summers at Roxwood, so it’s more a matter of having memorized where everything is. The contents of the house remain as they were, so I’m not bumping into furniture. And since I’ve had occasion to visit this area often as an adult, I still recall the proximity of my favorite places.”

“What about the hedge maze?”

“I believe it’s my turn.” But then he capitulated and said, “By the time I was twelve, I could find my way to the fountain at the center of the labyrinth with my eyes closed. I’ve always had the ability to ‘see’ without really doing so. Call it a third eye, if you will. Hugh and I often entertained ourselves as boys by wearing blindfolds and competing to see who could reach the fountain first. I always won the prize—a miniature toy soldier we shared between us.

“It became easy for me to navigate with memory instead of with my eyes.” A humorless bark escaped the steel veil. “I had no idea the day would come when such an amusement was no longer a child’s game.”

An unexpected lump rose in her throat. She too had learned
that life could change in the span of a breath. A man loses his sight. A mother dies . . . “They are more like the ivy growing on the side of your house—the color of my eyes,” she answered.

“Hmm, much more illuminating than simply green, then. Have you told your father about the changes in your circumstances?”

Again he switched subjects so fast it took Grace a moment to catch on. “I have not.” Her cheeks felt warm, and she was glad he couldn’t see her. “I thought it best to let him think all had gone according to plan.”

“And what plan would that be?”

She glanced at him and saw he’d turned to face her, as though waiting for her to speak.

“I’d rather not say,” she hedged.

“But Miss Mabry, I wish to know. You did agree to our little game, did you not?” He edged closer. “You know if it’s a secret, you can confide in me. Who would I tell?”

When she remained silent, he retreated and leaned back in the seat. “Of course, if you wish to stop playing . . .” He turned his masked face toward the open window.

“It’s just . . . I don’t want to tell my father I got fired from the WFC,” she said, enjoying their question game too much to have it end.

He turned to her again. “Would he be upset to know you’d been sacked? Is that the plan that’s gone awry?”

“There is no plan,” she said in exasperation. “But I . . . I cannot afford to fail and return home.” Her mouth went dry as she imagined her aunt’s disapproving stares, or the lofty Clarence Fowler scrutinizing her suitability much the way a collector of fine china looks for a chipped edge. “Suffice it to say, it would mean dire circumstances to my situation.”

“Tell me more.”

This time he leaned so close she could smell the spicy scent of his Bay Rum cologne. “No . . . I don’t . . .”

“If you cannot be honest with me, Miss Mabry, how is it right I should offer you the courtesy?” He pulled away. “I tire of this game. Please, turn the car around.”

Grace eased the car to a halt and scowled. He was always honest with her? Hah! Only until she asked him a question he didn’t want to answer. Still, they had barely begun. She wasn’t ready to return to the manor. “All right, fine,” she said. “If I’m forced to return to London, I’ll be placed under the watchful eye of my aunt—the spinster, remember? And if I resist, my only other option is to marry the man of my father’s choosing.” Staring out the window ahead at a bare-limbed tree amidst a copse of leafy oaks, she felt just as exposed by the obnoxious man beside her.

“Who is he?”

“Does it matter?” She turned to him. “When a woman isn’t allowed to marry for love, they’re all the same.” She flexed her hands on the wheel. “A cage.”

“That cage works both ways, Miss Mabry.”

He sounded tired. Grace considered him a moment. “Do you speak of yourself?” she asked, forgetting her anger. She’d read about his upcoming August marriage in the
Times
. “Are you being forced to wed Miss Arnold?”

“Of all the cheeky . . . Just drive!” he said.

She gave up any further effort to be civil. With her jaw set, Grace released the brake and eased the car forward. This time she aimed for every pothole in the road.

How could he compare his situation to hers when throughout history women bore the brunt of an arranged marriage? She recalled a suffrage speech that spoke of how women were forced to breed countless children into loveless relationships, “doing their duty” while being confined to home or used as social stepping-stones for their husband’s gain.

“A truce, Miss Mabry, please. My insides are churning.”

Jarred from her mental tirade, Grace veered the car from an
exceptionally large fissure she’d been driving toward. “A truce,” she agreed, though she wasn’t certain she would still have a job when they returned.

“Thank you. Now
please
tell me more about yourself. What did you do before joining the WFC? Had you any particular interests?”

His mellow tone disarmed her. “I usually helped Da . . . that is, my father, at Swan’s. While he is horribly traditional, he allowed me to update his ledgers.”

“Seriously?”

“Are you being impertinent?” She glanced at him.

“Not at all. I merely applaud your ability. Not many women of my acquaintance have such qualifications. You must have a talent for it or your ‘traditional’ father wouldn’t let you perform the task.”

“Thank you.” Grace was both startled and encouraged by his praise. “My real passion is writing, though I’ve not sold any of my work. Not yet, anyway. I recently submitted a magazine story to
Women’s Weekly
, but it was turned down.” She took a deep breath and said, “I refuse to give up, however. One day I plan to write a novel.”

“Admirable.” Then he asked, “Where are we right now?”

Grace saw only the road ahead, and beyond that, endless green valley. “I have no idea.”

“Describe it to me.”

She stopped the car and scanned toward the west. “I see a pasture and fences. A few trees and bushes, and I see the road ahead . . .”

“No wonder your story was rejected.”

His words stung. “This is
your
part of the country, sir, not mine—”

“And I cannot see it,” he reminded her. “You must describe it to me, please.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, feeling like a dolt. “What would you like me to tell you?”

“Just like an artist captures an image on canvas, a good writer must paint a picture with words. So I ask again, where are we?”

She surveyed the valley once more, taking the time to really see it. “There is much green pasture,” she maintained. “But not the type we’re working with at the farm. These grasses are red-tipped and only calf-high. I also see an outcropping of gray rock among the grasses that resembles a giant nest of eggs—granite, I believe? And more of the same smooth rocks are scattered in the direction of the morning sun, to the east. Not far from that is a cluster of thin, tall, white-barked trees—”