Not by Sight (32 page)

———

Two hours later, Jack sat on the bench inside his hedge maze, considering what he’d just heard. While he’d suspected Grace was the reason the women insisted upon meeting with him, he’d nevertheless been stunned by their unfailing allegiance.

Becky Simmons had started off by confessing her attempts to steal his chickens from the meat larder. Grace had saved her from a life of crime by stopping her with a few inspiring words, plus extra shillings from her own purse to aid Becky’s family.

Mrs. Vance had come forward next, linked arm in arm with Tillman. Jack hid his surprise as both sang Grace’s praises, not only for recognizing their growing attraction to one another, but for acting as a sort of matchmaker during the village dance.

He was already familiar with Lucy Young’s circumstances, yet she made certain to underscore to all present that it was Grace who had taken the first step to come to her aid.

Clare Danner’s revelation was perhaps the most shocking. Jack recalled the ride to Richborough when Grace refused to tell him and Marcus the name of the woman responsible for setting the pigs loose in his garden. It was for Marcus’s own love that Grace had kept silent, taking the punishment so that Miss Danner could remain at Roxwood and continue her search for a missing daughter. Jack wondered if she’d informed his friend about the child.

Finally, there was Agnes Pierpont, the woman with the odd, vaguely familiar laugh who had assisted as Violet’s maid during her brief stay. Miss Pierpont claimed to owe her very life to Grace and told of a husband, Edgar, who abandoned her without means. Grace found her begging outside Swan’s and took her in, giving her a position in the household and treating her more like a companion than a domestic. The small woman’s expression was teary-eyed and pale as she related the story; she seemed a devoted servant.

Their testimonies unsettled him. Jack found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the motives of a traitor with the generosity and kindness Grace had allegedly bestowed upon her friends. Their loyalty to her seemed unquestionable as they shared their stories, some at the expense of their reputations, in order to prove her innocence. In fact, all that goodness made yesterday morning’s arrest seem ludicrous.

It was at that juncture Jack had made an impossible promise—to help free Grace Mabry.

He sighed, digging at the soft earth near the base of the fountain with the toe of his shoe. Then he gazed at the clear stream of water bubbling up from its moss-infested stone. If only Grace’s motives were as transparent, he thought. He wanted to believe in her innocence. At the least, he wanted to be convinced she’d been coerced to do her father’s handiwork the night of the ball while he traded Britain’s secrets.

But Jack had seen the proof with his own eyes.

He reached to cup his hands beneath the fountain’s cool liquid and bathe his heated flesh. He’d been in the middle of this same act when she first happened upon him in the maze. Hearing her relief at finding help, she’d soon gone silent, doubtless at having seen his horrific scars before he covered his face. He didn’t sense in her then any artifice or guile, merely a woman lost and in need of rescuing, trusting he would be the man to do it.

How had his instincts been so wrong?

His foot hit something hard against the dirt, and Jack caught the glint of metal as he reached for a small object lying half buried in the mossy ground.

A wistful smile touched his lips when he retrieved the metal toy soldier that he and Hugh once used as their prize. He must have left it here the last time they competed together in the hedge maze.

Brushing away the dirt, he noted the painted uniform long chipped away. He recalled telling Grace how he’d always won the contests, navigating the myriad twists and turns of the maze, better with a blindfold than using his eyes . . .

“Not by sight.”
Again the words she’d spoken to him rose in his mind. Yet instead of feeling resentment, Jack rested his arms against his knees and closed his eyes, allowing his heart to navigate the past: the mornings Grace had been frustrated with his questions or pleased when she’d bested him with some witty remark; showing her temper as she made certain to hit each and every pothole in Great Britain, then candidly sharing with him her dream to become a novelist. She’d been gentle in removing his mask, touching his scars. And he’d felt her softness relax against him when he pulled her into his arms. Her passion as they shared a kiss.

All real enough, Jack realized. The blindness may have taken away one sense, but he’d managed to hone the others. Hearing
the smallest inflection in tone, feeling tension and pleasure. Smelling fear and deceit. Now that he could see again, why did he abruptly abandon those gifts?

Grace’s reactions with him had been genuine. And her friends believed in her enough to disclose their secrets. Jack was beginning to feel his own compulsion to share that faith.

He opened his eyes, clutching at the toy soldier. Regardless of how he felt, this was not some contest to be won or lost. Mata Hari had been found guilty of treason, and Marcus said there wasn’t sufficient proof. Even so, the woman would face execution.

How could he possibly help Grace when there was concrete evidence against her?

Jack stared into the clear water of the fountain. Nothing made sense, he thought as confusion warred with his aching heart. Nothing but that blasted letter.

20

“How is she?” Jack asked, having returned inside to his study to telephone his friend.

“Tired, but holding up,” Marcus said through the line. “I’d forgotten how thorough Cromwell’s investigations can be.”

Jack leaned forward in his chair behind the desk. “How thorough, Marcus?”

“Easy, old boy. The inspector’s only asking questions.”

Jack didn’t miss the gravity in his friend’s tone. “Any progress?”

“Not beyond what we already know. I did verify with the Army that Colin Mabry is still reported missing, though no one is certain yet if his departure from the regiment was intentional. They’re still conducting an investigation into his last whereabouts. As far as Patrick Mabry is concerned, detectives have combed through his offices, his residence, and his personal effects, but so far they’ve found nothing. He’s been questioned about the suspect he was recently seen talking with at Swan’s. He has nothing to say other than he visits with most of his customers. I’m afraid his daughter’s letter is the only thing
connecting him with treason. And despite our being at war, there is still a slim possibility he’ll get released.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful!” Jack clenched the phone as rage tore through him. After getting this close to the truth of Mabry’s actions, they might let him go? The injustice made him grind his teeth. “What about Grace?” he demanded.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Marcus said.

Dread filled Jack. “Have we missed something, Marcus? I ask because, as ridiculous as this is going to sound, I’m not certain she’s guilty.” He then recounted to his friend the stories Grace’s co-workers had shared with him earlier. “They make a persuasive argument as to her character, despite the letter. It’s hard to believe someone so selfless could simply turn around and betray her country.”

“A good spy goes to great lengths to remain undetected.” Marcus spoke matter-of-factly. “Miss Mabry has obviously done the same.”

“Is she that calculating? I know in this business we’ve met all types, but usually even the most experienced agent slips up in some way—with a word, a look, a nuance.” Jack hesitated, then said, “I’ve spent the past three weeks with her. In that time we’ve shared so much together . . .” He cleared his throat. “In spite of her father’s treachery in April, every instinct still tells me she’s innocent.”

“Jack, I understand what you’re saying,” Marcus said. “Even I admit that Grace isn’t what I’d first expected. And she did help me along . . . with Clare. I’m sorry.”

Jack wasn’t in the mood for commiseration. “What’s happens now?”

“Cromwell will end the questioning soon and send her to await a court-martial.”

Jack felt the air leave his lungs. “They’ll find her guilty, Marcus,” he whispered. “The firing squad—”

“I know,” Marcus said with equal gravity. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I’m coming to London.” Jack shot up from his seat behind the desk. “I want to see her.”

“Impossible. Both Mabrys are under New Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction. No visitors. Not even you, Jack.” He paused. “And to be honest, I don’t think she wants to see you right now.”

Of course she didn’t. “Keep me posted hourly” was all he managed before ringing off.

Moving away from the desk, he walked to the hearth and gazed into the empty grate. Any remnants of the white feather had now turned to ash.

Grace had been devastated by the action. Yet Jack was so angry, he hadn’t really seen it. He’d only wanted to lash out at her for betraying him that night months ago, and for the hundreds of poor souls killed on the Thames. For allowing him to hope for the first time in months, and then taking it all away with the simple ease of a letter—a letter much like the one he’d found aboard ship. Patrick Mabry’s letter. Ironic that the traitor might go free while his daughter would not.

He turned and slumped down into the chair across from the hearth. The women at the gatehouse believed in Grace, and he had promised to help. But how?

“Look
to your heart, Jack.”
Closing his eyes, he recalled the morning Grace had spoken those words to him. He leaned forward in the chair and clasped his hands together, as close as he’d come to prayer in a long time. If she was right, if indeed God did exist, then he hoped the Almighty would show him where to start.

———

Jack awoke in the early hours of the morning, sitting straight up in bed, his body covered with sweat. He’d had a dream; it was the night of Lady Bassett’s ball when he’d dressed as Casanova
and glimpsed the mesmerizing figure of Pandora approaching him, her gown flowing around her like angel’s wings.

He’d known even then he could love her. The emerald eyes smiled at him while her kissable mouth parted and she whispered,
“Not by sight, Jack,”
as she drew nearer, carrying with her the little gold box.

In his dream, Jack felt his eyes close for a moment, and he heard the sound—a high-pitched cackle from across the ballroom.

Laughter
 . . .

Grabbing up his robe from the bed, uncaring of the mask on his nightstand, he went downstairs to telephone Marcus.

Agnes was terrified.

Seated in the pew beside her co-workers at church the next day, she clutched her songbook and prayed silently while the others sang. The past two days had been a grueling nightmare—first, with her mistress being arrested for treason, then yesterday having to be in the same room again with Lord Roxwood.

She’d tried to remain obscure, standing at the back of the parlor. But then she’d laughed—it always happened when she was excited or nervous—and Lord Roxwood seemed to stare right through her. Agnes had to remind herself he was blind. He couldn’t possibly know it was her at the dowager’s costume ball that night long ago, or that she’d exchanged information with the man disguised as the American film star, Charlie Chaplin.

That Agnes was a spy for the Germans.

She’d listened while her co-workers bared their souls, shocked at some of the secrets they harbored. Agnes had hoped to evade telling her own, despite wanting to help Grace. Before long, however, it seemed all attention was upon her.
Even the lord of the manor had turned his masked countenance back in her direction.

And so she’d started spinning her tale of woe for her audience. How she’d met her British husband, Edgar, overseas, and he’d brought her here to his homeland before the war. How she’d married a coward who abandoned her once conscription laws were enforced.

All of which was true. Yet Agnes hadn’t told them Edgar was also a traitor to his own country, leaving Britain and his Belgian wife to return to Germany, where Agnes had lived with her mother and younger sister, Renee, as Belgian nationals. That he’d never really loved her but merely used her as part of his cover, doing his spy work in Britain.

“I was
at loose ends,”
she’d said.
“It wasn’t
long before I ran out of funds. I became desperate.”
True enough, as Edgar had left her almost penniless. Agnes then relayed to her co-workers and Lord Roxwood how months later, Grace found her begging outside Swan’s and took her in. That part of her story still filled her with shame. Not the begging, which was just a ruse, but having manipulated Grace Mabry’s sympathies. By then Edgar’s Dutch agent, Alfred Dykes, had made contact with her. He informed Agnes that her mother and Renee had been moved to a concentration camp at Holzminden in Lower Saxony.

If she ever wished to see them again, she would do as she was told.

“She took me
in, Miss Mabry did. It was luck that her lady’
s maid suddenly quit, running off to elope. I was
offered the post.”
Agnes wondered if there really had been an elopement, or if Dykes disposed of the maid to allow Agnes access to Mabry’s household. Swan’s, he’d said, provided the perfect cover—“hiding in plain sight” with its steady stream of clientele. Just days before, he’d taken up position as Swan’s floor manager,
replacing an employee killed in an automobile accident. Agnes wondered about that “accident,” as well.

“I became more like Miss
Mabry’s companion than her maid.”
Also true. Her relationship with Grace Mabry allowed Agnes the freedom to meet with various contacts during their outings together. In fact, the night of the ball, she’d met with Chaplin under the ingenious guise of handing out white feathers, which Grace had unwittingly suggested in her determination to enlist every able-bodied man to the Front.

As Dykes had access to Mabry’s posts, it was easy for Agnes to obtain letters written to certain shipping personnel who were also on Germany’s payroll; she would steam open the seals and insert coded messages using invisible ink, just as Dykes instructed. The letters would then be resealed and sent on their way, with Patrick Mabry none the wiser.

“I owe Miss Mabry
everything.”
Agnes had meant those words. Even now it grieved her to be the cause of Grace and her father’s arrest. But what choice did she have? Each time she looked at the photograph she’d been sent, of Mama and Renee standing beside the barbed wire, she feared for their lives. Agnes hated spying. There was one hope to cling to, though she knew it was likely a foolish one—that with Grace Mabry in jail, Alfred Dykes might finally leave her in peace.

———

“Aren’t you c-coming, Agnes?”

Lucy’s voice jarred her from her reverie. She was startled to realize the service was over and most of the villagers had already vacated the church.

Rising from her seat, she followed the others outside. Despite the calm day and clear skies, Agnes felt a storm of emotions assail her.
I’m a murderer . . .

“Enjoy your day, ladies,” Mrs. Vance said. “Tomorrow we’ll
finish up in the south field and by Wednesday deliver the last cartload of hay to Margate.”

“I hope I’ll get to go this time,” said Becky, and despite her own troubles, Agnes caught the note of worry in her co-worker’s normally cheerful voice. “I need to see my family.”

“Your sister, Ruthie, was just here. Is anything wrong?” Mrs. Vance asked.

Becky’s cheeks reddened, and she quickly shook her head.

“Ah, you’re just suffering a bit of homesickness,” Mrs. Vance said. “But the assignments have already been handed out. And since we’ve only a few days before we head to the next post, I suggest you make the best of it, Simmons.”

She scanned the rest of them. “I seem to recall Grace telling us about a place, Camden Pond I think it was.” Her attention settled on Becky. “Why don’t you ride your bicycles over and go for a swim? It’s a beautiful day and you’ll feel better.”

The notion seemed to lift Becky’s spirits. She smiled, then turned to Agnes. “Will you come with us?”

“I’m not much of a swimmer,” Agnes lied. How could she possibly think of going off to enjoy herself while Grace languished in prison?

Lucy read her thoughts. “I know you’re worried about Grace, but Lord Roxwood p-promised to help, didn’t he? And I’m sure he’ll talk to Clare’s friend.”

“Marcus Weatherford is no friend of mine,” Clare said. “And he won’t help. He’s just like the rest of them. Good for drinking and dancing, and little else.”