Not by Sight (21 page)

“I think it was before
this
,” he said, turning toward her and touching the mask. “Fate stepped in, and now you’ve found yourself a shiny new beau, untitled, but no doubt more pleasing to look at.” He paused. “Perhaps this new man of yours will pay your father off.”

“He hasn’t that kind of money,” she said angrily.

“And I do?”

“Surely you must have some kind of inheritance or property.” He could hear her resume her pacing. “My father would understand if you backed out, perhaps even make a deal with you, under the circumstances. I could appease him by keeping my reputation in town, and Arthur, well, he
is
the son of a viscount.” She sighed. “Don’t you understand, Jack? I love him.”

Jack laughed, and it was a hollow sound to his own ears. “You do sound convincing, my dear. But what else could you say to persuade me,
especially
in my circumstances?” A pause. “I doubt you even know what love is.”

The rustle of cloth moved away from him. “I do know”—her
voice carried from across the room—“though obviously you do not. Otherwise you would show a little compassion and set me free.”

He heard the abrupt slam of the door as she left the drawing room.

14

“Hurry up, ladies, or the dance is going to start without us!”

“We’re coming, Mrs. Vance,” Grace called downstairs. She rushed to shrug out of her robe and into the embroidered cotton summer dress she’d worn at the manor.

Clare had also dressed for the occasion wearing a long, blue cotton skirt and flowing white shirtwaist embroidered with tiny blue-and-gold flowers. In her hands she held a narrow straw hat trimmed in matching blue ribbons and sprigs of lavender.

“You look quite sharp,” Grace said, tying a bow into the white satin sash, completing her ensemble. “The color goes well with your eyes.”

Clare smiled as she donned the hat. “Thanks. Except for church on Sundays, I feel like I live in trousers and boots.”

“That’s because you do,” Grace said. “At least I got the chance to wear this dress for dinner the other night.” The memory of her intimate celebration with Jack still warmed her. “Though only Lord Roxwood’s staff got to see me in it, and Miss Arnold,” she added, recalling the woman’s piercing scrutiny.

“Speaking of Her Highness, Agnes said she left in a temper this morning?”

“Yes, I believe Sir Marcus drove her back to London.” And if Miss Arnold’s abrupt departure was any indication, her visit hadn’t gone as planned. Grace was secretly thrilled she’d left Roxwood. “Unfortunate for Sir Marcus, since I think you would have completely swept him away, especially in that darling hat.”

Clare arched a brow as she tucked a few errant wisps of dark hair beneath her brim. “Oh, I’d have swept him away, all right—with a good, stiff broom.”

Grace laughed, and Clare flashed a conspiratorial grin that produced a dimple in her right cheek. “You clean up nicely, Mabry. That green makes your hair look like fire.”

Grace adjusted the emerald gauze framing her wide-brimmed straw hat. “Thanks,
Danner
,” she teased. “Green is my favorite color, you know. I’m Irish, after all.”

Clare winked. “Won’t our dance cards fill up the minute we walk in the door?”

Grace’s smile turned wistful. It would be nice if Sir Marcus and Jack could have attended the dance tonight. But Sir Marcus was back in London, and Jack would never consider making a public appearance in the village. Coming under the town’s scrutiny once had been enough.

She sighed. At least she would enjoy some leisure time with her WFC sisters, a rare occurrence since they always seemed to be working. Grace wanted to spend time with Agnes, too. She’d returned to the gatehouse this morning after only two days with Violet Arnold. Her friend seemed out of sorts.

Agnes still wore her uniform as she dug through her traveling bag on the bed. Grace finished pinning her hat, then walked to her. She touched her maid lightly on the shoulder. “Agnes?”

Agnes jumped and whirled around. “Oh, miss, you startled me!”

“I’m sorry, I just wondered if you were all right.” She noted
the tight lines at Agnes’s mouth and her high color. “You seem distraught. Did Miss Arnold mistreat you?” Grace felt regret at having tossed her into the horrid woman’s path.

“Oh, no, miss.” Her features eased. “Aside from helping her dress and arrange her hair, I don’t think she even knew I was there.”

“Then why aren’t you getting ready for the dance? We’re all taking our bicycles to the village in a few minutes.”

“I . . . want to write a letter first, to my family in Belgium. I cannot seem to find my paper and pen.”

Grace was tempted to ask about the photograph she’d discovered in Agnes’s bag, but with the other women in the room, she didn’t think it prudent. “You’re welcome to use my stationery. It’s in my portmanteau,” she said.

“Oh, thank you.” Agnes looked relieved.

Poor dear, she must miss her mother and sister terribly. “Don’t be too long getting to the dance,” Grace said in an effort to lighten the mood. “It’s been a while since you and I have enjoyed time together besides lugging around bales of hay. And wear your new shirtwaist. That shade of pink is so becoming on you.”

Agnes paused. Then she shook her head, her brown eyes misting. “You’re always so kind . . .”

“Now, that’s enough.” Grace felt her own eyes begin to burn. “I’m just being truthful.”

“Your truth is colored by friendship, miss,” Agnes said softly. “And it will always be the most beautiful shade to me.” She took a deep breath and made an effort to smile. “I won’t be long and I will wear the pink. I’m certain Mr. Tillman will bring me over later in the cart.”

Grace nodded. “Mrs. Vance said another WFC gang will be there from the estate of Winton, and rumor has it the new Land Army girls, as well.” She winked. “Finding enough dance
partners to go around might be a challenge if we don’t get there first.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Agnes promised.

Heading downstairs with the rest of the women, Grace thought about her own family. She had yet to receive a letter from her brother, and while Jack’s explanation about Army mail had reassured her somewhat, she still worried about Colin.

Nor had she received a letter from Da since she arrived. Grace found she longed to see him, and it hurt to imagine he was too busy with Swan’s to think of her.

She halted on the steps as she realized she’d forgotten to post her letter—the one she intended to mail the day she took Jack to the village . . . two weeks ago! She’d changed her mind after seeing how the townspeople gawked at him, then had been so busy traveling or working in the fields that it completely slipped her mind.

Guilt plagued her. She could hardly fault Da when she was so thoughtless. Resuming her descent, she determined to mail the letter on Monday. Tomorrow she could add a postscript inquiring after any news of Colin. Perhaps Agnes would post it with hers, in the event Jack called on her to drive. With Violet Arnold gone, the chances were very good.

The thought buoyed her while she moved to crowd with the other women near the door. All looked their best, laughing and excited at the prospect of a night out. Mrs. Vance looked splendid in a rose-print dress, her straw hat decorated in matching mauve ribbons. “Shall we?” she said, smiling as she opened the door to their resounding yes.

Mr. Tillman stood on the front step. “Ladies,” he said in his rumbly voice.

He still wore his work clothes. “Why, Mr. Tillman,” Mrs. Vance said in a breathless voice, “are you here to escort us?”

“As much as that would please me, Mrs. Vance, I’ve still duties to attend to. I came with a message for Miss Mabry.”

Grace’s pulse quickened as she moved past the others to the front. Was it from Jack? Or perhaps word from Colin? “What message do you have?”

“His lordship has offered to let you drive the ladies to the dance in his motorcar, so that you might arrive ‘in style.’ I’ve got the cart here if you’d like me to take you to fetch it.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Lucy and Becky in unison.

“Thank you, Mr. Tillman. And thank Lord Roxwood.” Grace hid her disappointment. No word from her brother, and any hope she’d held that Jack might decide to attend the festivities was gone, not if he was allowing her to use the car for her friends.

She chastised herself for a fool. How could she think they had any future together? He was engaged to someone else. Grace was his paid driver, nothing more.

Liar.
She could still imagine his hand on hers at the table during dinner. The man who ate alone was willing enough then to break his own rules. His words to her, that she was his eyes and the best gift he’d received, burned in her memory and would remain always, no matter what the future held for either of them.

It was dusk when they finally arrived at the dance in the Daimler. Even from the street, the village community hall of Roxwood stood ablaze in light. Sounds of laughter and the quick melody of ragtime being played on a piano could be heard outside.

Parking the car, Grace followed Clare and the others into the hall. Becky was the first to break from their party, cutting a path to a pair of tables heaped with refreshments.

The place was packed with young men and women. A few couples danced while a soldier sat at the piano playing the light, carefree music they’d heard moments before.

“Oh, there’s Millicent Foster!” Mrs. Vance waved at a woman
near the refreshment tables. “She’s the supervisor for the WFC gang working at the Winton estate. We went through training together at Norfolk.”

Millicent Foster, a woman close to Mrs. Vance’s age and dressed in a seal-brown skirt and tailored jacket beamed and waved back. She was surrounded by five young and hardy-looking females clad in an array of blue, brown, and gray skirts, white shirtwaists, and straw hats with matching ribbons. Each held a glass of pink lemonade.

“See the woman over there, in uniform?” Mrs. Vance indicated another group along the opposite wall near the piano. “She’s with the Land Army girls I told you about.”

“Does that mean they’ll be coming to Roxwood?” Grace asked.

Mrs. Vance nodded. “I was informed yesterday a gang will start within two weeks. Our haymaking here is nearly done, and then we’ll be sent on to the next farm.”

Grace felt a jolt as she realized they would all be leaving Roxwood soon. What about Jack? Would she be able to stay on as his driver, or must she go with her sisters to the next farm?

“They’re pretty g-girls.” Lucy’s comment tore Grace from her musings, and she gazed at the Land Army women talking and laughing with a few of the soldiers.

“There seem to be more than enough ladies,” Clare observed, though a surprising number of young men in uniform stood in line for refreshments. Grace noted each table laden with mountains of biscuits, floured cakes, mince pies, and tiny cucumber sandwiches. Large punch bowls made of cut glass brimmed with pink lemonade. Given the war’s rationing, it was a sumptuous feast.

“It’s obvious these folks have scrimped for some time to provide such a bounty,” Mrs. Vance said, reading her thoughts.

“Certainly a sign of their patriotism,” Grace said, nodding her approval.

“I think it speaks more to their affection for these boys,” Mrs. Vance said gently. “When the threat of losing a child hangs in the balance, each moment you’re together becomes precious. No sacrifice seems too great for love.”

“No, it doesn’t,” murmured Clare, standing on Grace’s other side.

She turned to her friend and caught the flash of pain in the gray eyes. Scanning the crowded room, Grace noted for the first time the uniformed soldiers standing between older couples: fathers, with arms slung over the shoulders of their sons, while teary-eyed mothers squeezed the hands of their boys, who would all too soon return to the Front.

Grace spotted others standing with their families, some wearing uniforms, others sporting bandaged heads, broken arms, or a wooden crutch in place of a leg. A lump rose in her throat as the light of her idealism began to dim. Mrs. Vance was right. Love prompted these families, not duty or allegiance or pride. Again, she couldn’t help thinking of her brother, wondering where he was this night.

Did he struggle with sleep in some rat-infested trench? Or stand watch as they waited for the enemy to strike? Would he become like one of these boys, missing an arm or a leg?

Swiftly, images rose in her mind: Grace and her brother shouting wildly at last year’s rally, before their mother’s death; Colin smiling and looking smart in his brand-new uniform as they both stood beside Mother’s bed.

Lillian Mabry’s look of devastation as she’d turned to gaze at her daughter . . .

Grace felt her chest tighten.
Oh,
Colin, why don’t you simply write?

“My goodness, Sir Marcus is here,” Mrs. Vance said. “What an honor!”

The handsome figure of Sir Marcus Weatherford entered
the hall, looking smart in a brown pinstriped suit, matching waistcoat, and hat in hand.

A hush fell over the room as Jack followed closely behind.

Grace drew in a sharp breath. Even with the mask, he looked splendid. His tall frame was encased in a tailored navy-blue suit that fit his rugged form perfectly. In his hand he carried a single red rose.

Sir Marcus searched the room before his gaze settled on them. He turned to murmur something to Jack, and the two men approached.