Not by Sight (35 page)

She pursed her lips and looked down at the woman in her lap, who appeared to be sleeping. Gently she brushed back a tendril of the dusty, dark hair. “She said to tell Grace . . . to tell her she was sorry.”

She began to cry. As Jack reached to gently remove Agnes from her lap, Marcus swept Clare up into his arms. “Oh, sweetheart, I was so afraid I’d lost you,” he groaned against her hair. “When I saw the hay burning, I thought . . .”

Marcus pressed Clare close, and Jack realized what he wanted. Love. Passionate, steadfast, unending—love that could see beyond his scars to the heart of the man within. The joy he felt whenever he was with Grace . . .

He carried the body of Agnes Pierpont to a cart set up to take the dying and injured to hospital. While Mr. Tillman’s leg was being tended, along with Miss Danner’s cuts and bruises, he and Marcus spent the next several hours doing their best to help the townspeople of Margate clear away debris and put out fires.

It didn’t occur to Jack until later that no one remarked on his mask or gave his appearance a second glance. They had more important issues to deal with—life and death.

22

Filled with anticipation, Jack stood at the rail of his balcony the next afternoon and considered his options. Like the iridescent green of the labyrinth stretching out across the grounds below, his future now seemed fraught with twists and turns and traps. How should he proceed?

Last evening, after returning with the others from Margate, he’d decided to abandon the ruse of remaining blind. His announcement received a hug from Mrs. Riley and cheers from the remaining women at the farm, while Edwards, Knowles, and Townsend had yet to quit smiling.

He still felt reluctant to remove the mask, however. Reemerging into life’s stream after being immersed for so long in his quiet pool of darkness would take time. Jack was thankful to Grace for helping him take the first plunge. It amazed him to realize he’d had more social interaction in the past twenty-four hours than in the last several months. Many in Margate were grateful for his and Marcus’s efforts after the bombing, aiding with the injured and helping search out those who were unaccounted for.

Jack hoped the experience had bolstered his confidence enough to reenter society on a more long-term scale. Once news of his recovery reached his father, he would certainly be made to return to London. The thought made his heart race. As Stonebrooke’s heir, he must look to the future of the estate. Even if that future now seemed like the labyrinth, difficult to navigate unless one knew the way.

He gripped the rail and took a deep, cleansing breath. His telephone conversation with Violet less than an hour ago had been quite surprising. In fact, he couldn’t recall a time when she’d been that nice to him, going so far as to tell him he didn’t look so fearsome, after all.

One corner of his mouth lifted. He was sure her unexpected benevolence had everything to do with his calling off their engagement. Now that he understood what real love felt like, he refused to settle for less. And if Violet loved this Arthur Baines enough to give up an earldom and spend her life with the second son of a viscount, he wouldn’t stand in her way.

The consequences of his actions would likely reach the earl before long, and of course, Mr. Arnold. Jack had evaluated his assets. His grandfather had left Roxwood to him and his brother jointly; with Hugh gone, it was solely his decision. As much as it tore at him to sell the estate in order to repay the debt to Violet’s father, Jack would do it—not only to save Stonebrooke but to give himself the freedom to marry Grace.

Edwards knocked at his outer door. “Sir Marcus is on the telephone, milord.”

Jack returned inside to his rooms. “Tell him I’ll be with him directly,” he called as he retrieved his mask from the nightstand beside his bed.

The painted toy soldier lay beside it. Jack thought of Hugh and their childhood game in the hedge maze, and his confidence in always being able to win against his older brother.

Now he felt uncertainty. He’d said some terrible things to Grace. Despite his having helped her, she might not be willing to forgive him. He recalled the stories her friends had shared and how she had forgiven Clare Danner.

Jack’s offenses were far worse than letting a few pigs loose in the garden.

His heart pounded. He had risked all for love. Would Grace be able to return it?

Taking a deep breath, Jack closed his eyes. He recalled how in the study he’d asked for God’s help in finding a way to save Grace. Now he needed another favor—her forgiveness. “For faith,” he whispered, before bending his head to pray. Then he snatched up the soldier in his fist. “And for luck,” he said before heading downstairs.

“Grace is gone.” Marcus spoke in a grim tone over the line. “They were released from New Scotland Yard this morning. Mabry left with his daughter on the first ship for Ireland. He’s got a brother with a farm just outside Dublin.”

Standing beside his desk, Jack felt the floor beneath him shift. He gripped the telephone as if it might steady his feet. “Did she say anything?”

“I didn’t speak with her, but I heard it was a solemn event. Mabry was barely civil to Cromwell and his detectives, and I can’t say as I blame him. Swan’s is barred shut and closed for business. The father wasn’t about to remain in town and subject himself or his daughter to any more humiliation.”

Guilt stabbed at Jack’s insides. “Did Mabry indicate when they would return?”

“No.” Marcus let out a sigh. “The scandal has ruined him. I understand before the war, he put up the bulk of his wealth as collateral to expand his tea room franchise. Now, because of
the manpower shortage, building progress has been slow. And with these latest events, the bankers have backed out entirely.”

Mabry ruined. Jack recalled the accusations he’d hurled at Grace about Patrick Mabry, and knew she would likely include him in the blame for destroying her father’s livelihood. He replayed their last conversation in his mind, the ugly words he’d spewed against her family. She’d been telling him the truth, yet he hadn’t believed her. Grace had come to him, welcomed his embrace, shared the passion of his kiss . . . and he’d destroyed it all with cruelty and suspicion.

He cleared his throat. “What about her brother?” Jack eyed the painted soldier he’d placed on top of the desk. Never would he forget Grace’s devastation when he accused Colin Mabry of defecting to the side of the enemy. “Does the Army have any new information?”

“There was a mistake in paper work, so Colin Mabry wasn’t at the post he’d been assigned to. Once the problem was sorted, they discovered he’d been working with our sappers—the men excavating a new line directly underneath the German tunnels in order to lay explosives.” Marcus paused, then added, “Not much time for letter writing, which explains why Miss Mabry wasn’t receiving his correspondence.”

“So they found him?” Jack asked, relieved.

“It gets worse,” Marcus said. “Often the enemy ends up digging a parallel tunnel within a few feet of our own. The Germans must have heard our racket and beat us to it, setting off their own explosives. Our line collapsed. We had four inside, all of whom are listed as missing.”

“Colin Mabry.” Jack grabbed the toy soldier and clenched it in his fist. “Is there any chance they’re still alive?”

“More than a week has passed since the explosion, and our tunnel rats still haven’t been able to pinpoint the exact location. Without food, water, fresh air, it’s unlikely. No one’s notified
Patrick Mabry yet, since he’s still traveling. I’m sure the Army will contact him in Dublin once he arrives. I hate to think of how this news will affect Grace.”

Jack couldn’t speak for the knot in his throat.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. The war goes on,” Marcus said. “Will you be all right?”

Jack released a bitter laugh. “I’m hardly the worse off, Marcus. I still hide away here at Roxwood, nursing my scars.” His voice turned hollow. “And, it would seem, I am still blind.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Jack. Alfred Dykes and Agnes Pierpont were the real cause of the Mabrys’ downfall. And while we seemed harsh at the time, we possessed concrete proof of her guilt. If it had been anyone else, you and I would have proceeded in the same manner.”

But I would not have felt
this miserable.
“As you say, Marcus, duty calls.”

Jack rang off before his friend could argue.

He felt sick inside. Grace and her father would be forever altered by Colin Mabry’s death. He recalled his own devastation when the authorities arrived at his father’s brownstone in London with the news Hugh had died in a boating accident. But Jack knew. He may have been the best at navigating the labyrinth, but his brother had been an excellent sailor. The war had taken some integral part of him, leaving it behind in France. What remained of him when he returned had eventually given up.

He thought of his own isolation and of his mother in London, who barely managed her social affairs as she remained in mourning. The earl, his father, continued to grieve in the only way he knew how, with the punishing inflexibility he demanded of himself and tried to perpetrate upon his only remaining son.

Their family had never been the same.

Despite his friend’s logic, Jack felt responsible for ruining
Patrick Mabry’s life. He’d also fallen in love with the man’s daughter. He’d kissed her, held her in his arms, and then proved his fidelity by calling her brother a traitor.

Marcus had said the odds of finding Colin Mabry alive were unlikely, as it had been over a week. Without food and water and clean air, Grace’s brother would need a miracle.

Jack gazed at the painted soldier in his hand. The prize he’d always won . . .

“Edwards!”

His roar brought the steward rushing to the study. “Milord?”

He owed it to Grace and her father. He owed it to his brother, Hugh. “Get Townsend in here. I’m driving to London.”

23

Ireland was as green as she’d imagined.

Grace straightened and peered out at the forested hills beyond Uncle Brian’s farm. Though the land was more mountainous than Kent, Dublin’s outlying countryside with its varying shades of green, clear-running streams, and crisscrossed stone fences seemed much the same.

She returned to her task, lifting another forkful of hay and loading it onto the back of a small cart. Nearby, the horse, a black-and-white Irish cob called Bea, grazed lazily. While the sky was overcast, the air felt warm, filled with the sweet scent of clover. Grace was grateful to be outside, not only for the chance to repay Uncle Brian’s generosity, but the hard work acted like a balm to ease her wounded soul.

Her father had yet to recover. After two weeks, Da still sat beside the picture window of her uncle’s house, staring out at the fields for long hours. She’d overheard him talking to Uncle Brian shortly after their arrival, telling him they had lost everything—not only Swan’s but the franchise tea rooms her father had hoped to complete in the coming year.

With the Mabry name mired in scandal and suspicion, she and Da had only his generosity to see them through.

She and her father hadn’t spoken of Colin, either. When word came from the Army about the explosion, Grace felt her heart cut in two. The report had been vague, some kind of tunnel accident, and they hadn’t found his body. Colin Mabry was listed as a casualty of war.

Grace didn’t want to believe her twin dead. Wouldn’t she feel it inside if he were?

Tears brimmed at her lashes, and she ground her teeth, stabbing the pitchfork into the mound of hay at her feet. She’d prayed constantly to God to bring him back, but it hadn’t changed anything. Colin was gone. Grace didn’t think she could ever forgive herself.
Mother, I’m so sorry . . .

Grace flung another forkful of hay onto the cart. She ached for her brother, and after receiving a letter with news about the girls from Mrs. Vance, she missed the comfort and camaraderie of her sisters in the Women’s Forage Corps.

On a whim, Grace had written to her supervisor at the farm and received a reply yesterday. She’d been thrilled for Mrs. Vance and her upcoming wedding to Mr. Tillman, and shocked to learn Becky went home abruptly when it was discovered both of her parents were gravely ill and two of her youngest siblings had contracted rickets.

The Simmons family was starving.

Grace recalled the envelope of money she’d given to Becky after lecturing her on the perils of stealing and felt new shame. While it was true, stealing wasn’t the answer, providing a onetime handout hadn’t solved the dilemma for Becky’s family, either. To think she’d actually felt smug over having solved Becky’s problem! Now, with her and Da in such dire straits, she could only pray the Simmons family would survive.

With Becky’s news came other doubts plaguing Grace. It
seemed Lucy Young had gotten off to Stonebrooke all right, but what would her new life be like in such close quarters with all those gossiping servants? Would her secret remain safe?
Had
Grace done the right thing by involving Sir Marcus and Jack?

Jack . . .
She straightened to lean against her pitchfork and gazed out across the field. He had wounded her deeply with his accusations the day of her arrest, yet Grace realized he’d had ample reason to be suspicious. Not only because she’d seen the secret Q port at Richborough firsthand and asked about it, but before leaving New Scotland Yard, Inspector Cromwell had explained to her and Da the depth of Agnes’s treachery.

Heat climbed her cheeks. It seemed
she
had been the blind one, allowing herself to be taken in by Agnes Pierpont. Mrs. Vance had sketched details about the bombing in Margate and how Agnes had died saving Clare’s life. Yet Grace struggled with forgiveness, not only for Agnes but for herself, as well. She’d hired the maid without references and brought a spy into their home, one who ultimately caused Da’s ruin.

She’d also let Agnes manipulate her into attending the ball that night, playing on Grace’s fears and righteous sense of duty. Grace may not have set out to target Jack, but her association with the woman nearly cost him his life. He had every right to think her a complete simpleton.

Still, she missed him. Certainly Jack must be married to Violet Arnold by now. At night, after working in her uncle’s field, Grace found comfort lying in bed and reading back through her journal, rediscovering her time with him. Amused at first over her written irritation at his incessant questions, her heart was eventually moved, reading the ways in which he’d begun to share himself with her, his childhood memories and the happier times with his brother, Hugh. Taking her to his special places and allowing her to be his eyes.

He’d helped her with her dream of becoming a writer, as well. And despite her pain, Grace had already started writing her first novel—not about the Tin Man or the glories of aiding the war, but simply about a few brave young women. Women who, despite their own difficulties, came to trust one another with their secrets, their dreams, and their friendship while helping their countrymen . . .

A car’s engine sounded in the distance, pulling Grace from her reverie. The black Ford turned onto the long, dirt driveway heading toward her uncle’s house.

Unaccountably, she felt her heart race and she dropped the pitchfork she’d been holding and started for the house. She was still a few hundred yards away when the car stopped. A man in uniform exited the passenger side and pulled out a bag from the back seat. Even beneath his cap, she could see the crop of black hair, the unmistakable tall frame—

“Colin!” she screamed, breaking into a run, her hat flying as she took a shortcut toward the house.

He turned to her, hearing her cry. Grace was close enough to see him smile before her eyes blurred with tears.

Soon she was in his arms and sobbing his name.

“Oh, Colin, they told us you were dead, but I didn’t believe it. I would have known . . .” She clung to him, weak with relief as she babbled on, dazed and euphoric to see him again.

“Easy, Grace.” He pulled back gently, and she spied his left arm in a sling. He was also much thinner and pale, almost ghostly.

“Colin . . .” New tears crowded her lashes. She turned and shouted at the house, “Da! Uncle Brian! Come quickly!”

Colin had dropped his bag to the ground and was paying the cab driver when Patrick and Brian Mabry strode out onto the porch. Da whitened. “Son?” he said hoarsely.

Colin saluted. Her father stumbled down the porch steps and
gently embraced his son. “It’s a miracle,” he cried. “I thought I’d lost you, too.”

Colin hugged his father and then it was Uncle Brian’s turn. Grace looked on, smiling, swiping her cheeks with the heels of her hands. Her brother looked weather-beaten, but he was here with them and safe. God had answered her prayers.

Once the cab drove away and Da grabbed up Colin’s duffel bag, they entered the house. Uncle Brian went to fetch Bea and the cart.

Reveling in Colin’s safe return, they enjoyed a special celebration supper that night, with roasted mutton, potatoes, carrots, and bread fresh from the oven. Grace even tried her hand at making an amber apple pie, which didn’t turn out too badly.

It wasn’t until hours later that Grace and her twin had a private moment to speak together.

“How did you get injured?” she asked him. They sat together on a bench outside the small barn. The air cooled while the evening light faded to dusk. A chaffinch sang in the apple tree several yards away, while cicadas chirped in the tall grasses beyond. The scent of sweet clover floated on the breeze.

As Colin turned to face her, Grace felt a new rush of gratitude toward God. The endearing presence of the brother she’d worried about for so long was now with her again, sitting beside her. She could hardly believe it.

Then as he withdrew his hand from the sling, she sucked in a breath to see only a bandaged stump at his wrist. “I didn’t want to tell Father just yet,” he said. “Let the good news of my return content him for tonight. He’s been through so much. Tomorrow is soon enough.”

Grace wanted to weep. “Oh, Colin, what have I done?” she whispered. “I have been so foolish. You cannot know the consequences my actions have caused.” She touched the bandage. “I never should have insisted you go with me to that suffrage rally.” Again she envisioned her mother’s look of devastation.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said gently, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking—that because Ma didn’t want me to go with you that day, you feel responsible. But I’d already enlisted in the BEF days before the rally. It was my decision, and nothing you could have said would have changed that.”

Grace blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “Did Da know of this?”

Colin nodded. “With Ma so ill, he and I decided to say nothing about it.”

“But she found out a few days later,” Grace said, “and she blamed me for your leaving.” Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I blame myself, too. I was so eager at first to take up the call to arms with my fellow suffragettes, I had no idea of the realities of war. I thought only about the glory of victory, and despite Mother’s disapproval, I believed my cause was the right one.”

She looked up at him. “After she died, and your letters began arriving, I read about the difficult conditions you endured and how lonely you sounded. I began to have doubts. And I was afraid, I think; with the air attacks in London, I grew even more self-righteous. I eventually convinced myself that if I shamed others into joining you in the fighting, it would bring victory that much sooner. And you, my brother, could come home to us safe and sound. So I handed out white feathers of cowardice. I am ashamed to think of it even now. I even misjudged a man . . .”

She fought back tears and continued, “This man, I thought him a coward at first, but later I learned he was fighting for Britain all along, in less obvious ways. And at Roxwood, I encountered other young men returning home from the Front. Many were injured, some on the inside as well as out, but I hadn’t yet realized how naïve I was about war, not until I learned you were missing.”

Impulsively she reached to hug her brother. “I’m so relieved
to see you again. You said little when Da and Uncle Brian asked about your being recovered by the Army,” she said, searching his face. “Will you tell me what really happened?”

He gazed at her a long moment before he said, “It was a miracle, Grace.”

When he fell silent, she reached to touch his shoulder. “Please, I want to know.”

Colin stared out toward the fields. “We were dismounted cavalry, and they’d asked for volunteers to help excavate a tunnel very close to one the Germans had built,” he began. “But the enemy decided to blow their own tunnel first, before we got the chance to finish our work. Suddenly four of us were trapped, buried beneath several feet of earth.” He released a shaky breath. “Cleese, Ames, Richards, and myself. Cleese was an older chap. He died in the collapse.”

Colin rubbed at his forehead. Grace longed to ease his grief.

“I’d broken a couple of fingers, so Richards and I tried pushing with our feet through the rubble,” he went on. “When it finally gave way, we discovered a hollow the enemy had dug out to store their cache. As both of Ames’s legs were crushed, we had to drag him through the opening we’d made.” He looked at her. “It amazes me still. There we were, thinking ourselves done in, when in the next minute we ended up in this space underground. The Germans had it stockpiled with water and rations and ammunition. They’d even crafted a series of hoses through the ceiling to the surface, so we had air to breathe.

“We held on, waiting for rescue. Hours turned into days. I still had my wristwatch, otherwise I couldn’t have determined morning or night. We were in total darkness, except for a few flashlights. And aside from the distant shelling, we heard nothing except our own breathing and Ames groaning in pain.”

He eyed his bandaged wrist. “My fingers had started going sour, until eventually my hand got infected and swelled up.
Richards showed me how to use my belt as a tourniquet. I kept applying pressure to the wrist, hoping to keep the infection contained.” He glanced up at her. “But in the end, they had to take the whole hand. Still, I was better off than Ames.”