Not by Sight (12 page)

“Birch,” he said. “And from your unusual but accurate description of nesting rocks, we should be close to the turnoff for Tarryton Road. There should be a signpost . . .”

“I see it!”

He turned to her. “Very fine painting, Miss Mabry. You may have the makings of a good novelist, after all.”

She beamed, genuinely grateful for his insight. He’d forced her to observe the details in what she was looking at. “There are two . . . no, three bushes to the left of the trees. I’m not much of a gardener, but each has green almond-shaped leaves and is covered in large blue flowers a bit like snowballs.”

“Hydrangeas. Hugh and I used to ride our horses out here and pick them when our mother traveled to Roxwood with us. She always enjoyed their beauty.”

She caught his somber tone. “Does she live in London?”

“For now, although she keeps to her rooms much of the time. My mother hasn’t yet overcome her grief, either from Hugh’s death or my accident.”

Much like you, Lord Roxwood.
“I’m sorry,” Grace said instead. She sought to lighten the moment. “What are the white flowers beside the hydrangeas? Roses?”

“Yes, wild roses. Those would be the dog rose.” Then he said, “My brother and I spent a lot of time climbing on those rocks. We pretended we were explorers on a mountain expedition to the Himalayas.”

“In India,” she said.

“You know about them?”

“Only from books. I’ve read about all sorts of things. You and your brother were very close, weren’t you?”

He tilted his head upward. “Not a day passes that I don’t think of him.”

“I feel the same about my brother. I told you he’s in France. I haven’t received a letter from him since I arrived, though.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know you’re here?”

“I sent him a letter posted from Roxwood when I first got here.”

“Well, sometimes it can take a while for the Army’s mail to find its way to the mainland.” He leaned back in his seat, resting an arm against the door’s edge. “I wouldn’t worry.”

She hadn’t considered the possibility. His words gave her hope. “I suppose it might take longer for him to receive my letter, as well. That would certainly cause delay in our correspondence.”

“It’s very likely. How long has your brother been overseas?”

“A little over a year. Colin enlisted in the BEF last April. I miss him terribly, but I am very proud of him. He’s doing his duty. ‘For God, King, and Country.’”

“You are a staunch supporter of the war, Miss Mabry?”

Grace detected his sarcasm. “I feel we must all be patriotic in whatever capacity we are able,” she said primly, reminded again that he was a conscientious objector to the war. “We must win against our enemies and put our country back to rights.” She paused. “Surely you must agree?”

“We got ourselves into this war because of a treaty we made
with Belgium scores of years ago,” he said. “Yet the cost we’ve had to pay for that agreement is insurmountable.”

He dropped his arm from the door. “The price is too high, in my estimation, with countless lives lost on both sides. And for those who returned home, like my brother . . .” His voice held a tremor. “In the short time Hugh remained with us, he was never the same.”

Seeing his hands clench, Grace resisted an urge to reach for him. She knew the devastation of losing someone beloved. “I understand there was an accident . . . after his return?” she said gently. “I am sorry.”

“An accidental drowning is what the
Times
reported.” He turned to her. “The newspapers print all manner of stories, Miss Mabry. Perhaps you should send them one of yours? Make it outlandish and it will sell.”

What did he mean by outlandish? Hadn’t his brother’s boat capsized? Grace wanted to ask him more, but thought better of it. She said instead, “I do sympathize with your loss, Lord Roxwood. Still, it doesn’t change the fact we are in this war and must now fight to win and bring an end to it. Our duty must prevail.”

“Ah, Miss Mabry, I’ve thought of a perfect occupation for you,” he said. “Writing propaganda for Parliament. Recruitment posters like the one featuring our departed Lord Kitchener, which still seem to float about London.” He paused. “And no one would ever be the wiser as to the truth.”

“What do you mean by truth, sir? You think I merely put on an act?” His words cut at her. “You have no right to mock my loyalty to my country or to my brother just because you don’t approve of the war.”

He was quiet a moment. “Indeed, I do not,” he said finally. “Not with regard to your brother. Your allegiance to him is commendable. Now, I wish to return to the house, please.”

Grace retraced the direction they had come. Like their other outings, he said little on the return trip. She looked at him from time to time, and whether it was because she could see more clearly the man behind the mystery or she was simply accustomed to his company, the mask no longer bothered her as it had before.

“Milord?”

Jack paused in eating his supper, hearing his steward’s voice outside the doors to the dining room. “Yes, Edwards?”

“Excuse me, I do pardon the intrusion on your privacy, but . . . Miss Arnold has telephoned again. She insists on speaking with you.”

The unflappable Edwards sounded harassed. Jack could well imagine the earful Violet Arnold had given him. His jaw tightened as he laid down his fork. “I’ll be there presently.”

“Ah, very good, milord.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips at the relief he heard in his steward’s voice. Jack left what remained of his dinner and retied his mask before exiting to the study.

“Violet, good of you to call,” Jack said as he took a seat behind his desk. He forced a measure of pleasantness into his tone.

“I’ve tried to reach you on the telephone several times, as if you didn’t know.” Her waspish voice crackled through the line. “Have you come to a decision yet?”

Jack sighed. Right to the point, then. “Crying off the engagement? I haven’t had time to give it much thought.”

“What, too busy scaring off the locals? Or are you still hiding away in your rooms? I would imagine you’ve had scads of time to think, while I on the other hand want a
life
, Jack Benningham. And I plan to live it.”

“So,
you’re
breaking off our engagement?”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you can paint me as the heartless woman who abandoned her poor, crippled fiancé in his time of need.”

“I would hardly call myself a cripple,” he snarled, losing the battle to control his temper. “Though being blinded to your beauty is
indeed
a misfortune.”

“Spare me!” she snapped. “This engagement was doomed from the start. Surely you can’t be so thick as to ignore that?”

“How could I?”
Especially when you
remind me at every opportunity
, he thought.

Despite his blindness, Jack saw the issue more clearly than his fiancée ever would. Violet Arnold surrounded herself in the frivolities of fashion, fetes, and following the latest entries into
Burke’s Peerage
, but cared little for the crass realities of money, contracts, and the price for a coronet.

“So? What is your answer?” she asked.

“I’ll have to think on it a bit more. I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” Then she hung up on him.

Jack’s heart pounded as he carefully replaced the receiver. He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. By the time Violet had arrived in London with her father, Diamond Princesses—the wealthy, upper-crust American debutantes seeking titles in exchange for money—had become a thing of the past. Still, Jack recalled his stoic father actually smiling when Jack’s mother announced a wealthy oilman from America had attended the Sorensens’ fete and discreetly asked after Hugh Benningham’s marital status.

It had been a last-ditch means to save Stonebrooke and all its lands. Violet and her father soon became regular guests at the Benningham home. A month later, Hugh announced his engagement to Miss Arnold, and her father in good faith advanced the earl an enormous sum to pay off Stonebrooke’s pressing debt.

Violet seemed happy and gay back then, and Jack was convinced she’d actually cared for his brother. But then Hugh died, and while she grieved, her father had negotiated the uglier ramifications, reminding the earl of money already paid on account.

Jack had understood his duty. After a proper mourning period, he and Violet were engaged. It was hardly a love match, as she had continued to grieve for his brother and Jack felt no real affection toward her.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. He remembered the last time Violet had seen him. Marcus was with him at hospital that day as the surgeon removed the bandages. Jack had remained completely still, sweat running down his back as he prayed to a distant God to give him back his sight. Time froze. He’d felt cool air sting his tender flesh . . . while the darkness remained to crush in on him.

Outside the hospital room, Violet’s imperious tone was giving orders to the nurse to speak with him. The door had burst open, and he heard her booted heels clipping smartly across the linoleum floor. The room went silent. Then a guttural cry followed by a sound much like a bolt of cloth hitting the floor. A flurry of commotion and noises ensued. Violet had fainted.

Jack realized then the kind of monster she’d been chained to. Yet despite her pleas to be free of him, it was her father who refused to let go. Mr. Arnold had demanded repayment of his money or the coronet for his daughter. Without sufficient funds, Jack had only the latter to offer, and Stonebrooke must be saved. He and Violet remained trapped.

He returned to the dining room and heard the clatter of dishes. “Oh, excuse me, milord, I was just coming to clear,” Mrs. Riley exclaimed.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Riley. How about coffee?”

“It will be my pleasure. And if I may be so bold, milord, your
appetite is much improved. The fresh air each morning must be doing you a world of good. Now, I’ll get that coffee for you.”

Jack seated himself at the table. The outdoors
had
improved his appetite for food, as well as providing him with the chance to know Grace Mabry a bit better.

His spirits lifted, recalling their morning outing together. She wasn’t one to faint at the sight of him, nor did she allow his looks to affect her many opinions. A smile touched his lips. She’d been ready to do battle for him with the villagers on Saturday.

He considered, too, her proselytizing to him—about God and having faith and any other tidbit she’d gleaned from the good reverend’s sermon. Was her piety part of an act . . . or had she meant what she’d said? She’d seemed quite animated as well during their discussion about the war and doing one’s duty. In fact, she’d made her views quite clear. Was it all a sham merely to gain his trust?

Jack rubbed at his chin, frowning. He didn’t think so. Her passion for both causes seemed genuine enough.

Mrs. Riley returned with his coffee and served him a cup before leaving the room. Once she’d closed the doors, he lifted the mesh of his mask and sipped carefully, the hot, fragrant liquid scorching him. Much like Miss Mabry’s temper, he thought, still feeling each and every pothole she’d purposely struck that morning. A chuckle escaped him, a sound rusty and foreign to his ears.

In truth, as each day passed in her company, Jack found it more difficult tying her to any treachery on her father’s part. He weighed Patrick Mabry’s bribery of a clerk against her candid talk about the doomed choices she faced back in London, much like his own with Violet. And he compared Marcus’s theory that she searched out proof, which no longer existed, with that of Grace Mabry’s dreams of becoming a novelist. Such contradictions left him stymied. Either she was genuine or she was twice as crafty as Mata Hari.

9

“Where shall we go today, Lord Roxwood?”

Jack sat in the Daimler and deliberated a moment before he said, “I’ll let you choose today, Miss Mabry. Once we arrive, you can describe the place, and we’ll see how well I’m able to pinpoint our location.”

“Margate?”

“No,” he said, his pulse accelerating. “I do not know that city well. Choose from one of the country roads closer to the estate. You understand? I do not wish to go to Margate.” His insides clenched at the thought of venturing into such a public place. The village had been difficult enough, knowing how they stared at him.

“What if we become lost on one of these country roads?”

Her anxious tone drew his attention. “You had better make certain your powers of description are adequate. Or shall I have Edwards accompany us?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

Jack heard her resolve an instant before the car leaped forward along the graveled drive. He sensed her turning left mo
ments later. Assuming they had passed the gatehouse, away from the direction of Margate, he eased back in his seat.

“I know I would have enjoyed Margate.”

Her consuming interest piqued his own. “You seem keen to visit that city, Miss Mabry. Have you ever been there on holiday?”

“No, but I’ve seen photochromic prints of the harbor and jetty. And London’s National Gallery has on display several oil paintings of the coastline by the artist J. M. W. Turner. Margate looks beautiful.” She paused, then added, “I expected to go, but now things have changed.”

“How so?” Jack leaned forward in the seat. Had he missed a chance to get at the truth? He could still have her turn around, and discover why she seemed so bent on going to Margate.

He wrestled with his discomfort—and lost. Frustration coursed through him. Perhaps Marcus was right to doubt his ability for the task. “What’s changed?” he asked.

“The WFC is delivering hay to the train station at Margate today,” she said. “I would have been assigned to drive the team, but Lucy’s taken my place. It’s not likely I’ll ever get to go.”

“Ah, yes, they move the bales by rail to Folkestone and then ship them overseas.” Her reasons seemed innocent, after all.

A dog’s loud barking made him grip the door’s edge. “We’re entering Roxwood?” He could hear a woman hawking fresh bread to his right, doubtless the old crone Maeve, who had been selling loaves from her cart since he was a boy.

“Correct,” Grace replied beside him. “But that’s far too easy a test for you. We’re going beyond the village.”

As the Daimler made slow progress along the cobbled main street, Jack imagined all eyes on him. “It truly is a charming little town,” she said, and he could tell she tried to put him at ease. “With the prettiest colored shops—apple reds and forest greens, with a few gray structures the color of the sky just before a good rain—”

“Thank you, Miss Mabry. But as I already know where we are, your colorful descriptions, while illuminating, aren’t necessary.”

“Fine, I won’t say another word until we get to our destination. Then let’s see how well you do.”

Jack smiled as he envisioned her feathers ruffling. “My success will rely solely on the accuracy of your description,” he said, releasing his grip on the door. The sounds on the street dimmed, and he perceived the curiosity of onlookers. Even Maeve had stopped her hawking. Only the dog seemed oblivious as it continued to bark.

Freak
. No doubt they all gaped at him, just as they had last week. He considered Grace Mabry, how after the first morning she’d questioned him about the mask, she’d never mentioned it again.

The Daimler picked up speed, and Jack knew they had left the village. The car’s motion and the warm country air lulled him into a drowsy state. He began dreaming the same nightmare he often experienced—those moments before the man disguised as Chaplin dove over the side of the ship. And Jack, watching in fury, unable to go after him . . . then turning to seek out the captain . . . an explosion, followed by blackness—

A hand touched his shoulder. Jack jerked forward in the seat.

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly,” he said, his voice groggy.

“You fell asleep?”

“Just dozing,” he said. “It’s a very warm morning and I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“Please pay attention to the road, Miss Mabry.” He didn’t want her prying into his inmost thoughts. “Have we arrived at this destination of yours yet?”

“We have.” Her voice came across low and teasing, and Jack found he liked it when she spoke to him that way. “It’s a good
thing you fell asleep and didn’t detect all of my turns. This will prove to be your greatest challenge.”

He smiled, enjoying their little game. “All well and good, Miss Mabry, but you must describe our location as though you’re writing a story for
Women’s
Weekly
. I’ll pretend I’m the editor and I won’t settle for mere trees and bushes.”

“Agreed.” He heard her car door open. Moments later she opened his. “Would you care to stretch your legs, Mr. Editor?”

He slid from the seat to stand against what felt like hard-packed earth. The sun beat down against his shoulders despite his layers of clothing. Without the car’s roof as protection, the mask soon became uncomfortably hot, as well.

“Ready?” she asked. He could imagine her scouring their surroundings for markers.

She cleared her throat and began, “The road is little more than a well-traveled horse track, arcing wide across an endless green pasture. On one side, weathered, crisscrossed timbers hem in dozens of black-faced sheep grazing with their lambs beneath the warm rays of sun. The other side opens out to more grassland, and a smallish, oblong pool of mossy-green water, surrounded by three majestic willow trees. The pool is fed by a narrow creek, stumbling over large white rocks and running off in the distance.” She paused. “Well, can you guess where we are?”

Jack was amazed at how much she’d improved on her descriptive passages. She made it almost too easy for him. “You’ve just described the northeast edge of Miller’s farm near Barden. A few minutes ago, we would have passed the gate and a sign that read
Welcome all travelers
. Am I correct?”

“Very good.” She sounded equally impressed. “Does this mean you’ll purchase my story ‘Miller’s Farm’ for publication, sir?”

Hearing the laughter in her tone, he was pierced with a
longing to see her face. “Most assuredly, Miss Mabry,” he said. “I will publish it straightaway.”

“Thank you.” She did laugh then before adding, “Are you by chance smiling under there?”

How was it she surprised him at every turn? “And if I was?” A sudden desire to show her battled his fear of her rejection.

“I should like to see it, of course.” Her voice held a hint of exasperation. “I did catch a glimpse of you in the hedge maze, after all. What I mean is that you have quite a nice smile, when you’re not growling at the world.”

She enjoyed his smile? Still his fear won out. “I believe I have more to growl about.”

“Why is that? When you possess wealth, title, and enough land to start your own country?”

He scoffed at her naïveté. “What is any of it without my sight? Lands, estates, even my prizewinning rose garden. What purpose do they serve when I cannot see them?”

“You can smell your fragrant roses, sir. As for your lands, they provide the good food on your plate at table. You warm yourself by the fire with wood felled and chopped from your forests. And you can do this at any one of your estates. Simply because you’re here right now and not in some muddy trench in France is something to smile about, don’t you think?”

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to feel ashamed of my attitude?” How dare she minimize his injuries against his greater material wealth! “I hate to disappoint you, Miss Mabry, but I’d beggar myself in an instant to glimpse another sunset or to watch the way the wind and sun dance together like diamonds tossed across Camden Pond. To appreciate the sight of a beautiful woman . . .” His thoughts returned to his goddess in green, so long ago. “I’m afraid living in darkness has obliterated any gratitude I might have felt.”

“My intent was not to shame you, sir,” she said quietly. “I
only remind you that you do have blessings. And you have gifts—your remarkable sense of direction and the knowledge of your surroundings. I doubt any could navigate as well in the same circumstances.”

“Yes, in the same circumstances!” he snapped, breaking the tenuous bond between them. Was he so pathetic, so starved for company and the outside world, he was willing to ignore who her father was and what he’d done? How would she react to the knowledge? Or did she already know? “I hope you never have to endure it, Miss Mabry. Now take me home.”

———

Back at the farm, Grace found Becky waiting for her.

“Are the others back from Margate?” she asked briskly, still frustrated over her outing with Lord Roxwood.

“No,” said Becky. “And Clare and Mrs. Vance are mending tarpaulins in the village, so you’ll work with me.” The red-cheeked woman pointed toward a table and a pair of washtubs beneath the lean-to attached to the barn. Another washtub filled with steaming water sat over a lit brazier just beyond the overhang.

“The gamekeeper’s killed the poultry, but the kitchen boy went home sick. Mrs. Riley wants us to clean them.” The oolong-colored eyes pierced hers. “Ever plucked a chicken before?”

Grace swallowed and shook her head. The only time she’d encountered chicken was in the form of c
oq au vin
, or the
fricassee
that Amanda, the Mabrys’ cook, served them at supper. “Aren’t the Land Army girls supposed to do that?” Her voice had raised a notch. “When will they arrive?”

Becky shrugged. “They’re not here now, are they? So we’ve been volunteered . . . again.” She grinned. “Come on, I’ll teach you how.”

Grace followed Becky to the table. Her breath caught at the sight of so many dead birds piled high in one of the washtubs.
The other tub held water. “Plucking chickens is easier than you think.” Becky grabbed one of the birds by its feet and took it to the tub of simmering hot water. “Just dunk it two or three times to loosen the feathers, like this,” she said, illustrating for Grace. She returned to the table with the steaming bird and began removing feathers with ease. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”

Grace went to the washtub and gingerly took hold of a chicken. She held it away from her and walked toward the tub of hot water, repeating the process Becky had just shown her. A smell like wet dog rose to her nostrils, and she nearly gagged as she made her way back to the table with the soggy, steaming bird. Taking up the place across from her co-worker, she began pulling feathers.

“Good job!” Becky beamed as Grace held up her first perfectly plucked chicken. “Looks like you’ve been doing this all your life.”

“Why, thank you,” Grace said, warmed by her praise. Oddly the smell of the wet feathers wasn’t nearly as overpowering as it had been before. She laughed. “This is definitely not something they teach you in finishing school.”

Becky showed her how to tie off the bird’s feet and hang it from one of the nails protruding from a joist inside the lean-to. “We’ll take them to the larder when we finish,” she explained. “They need to hang a few days to tenderize the meat.”

They continued plucking chickens, with Grace’s thoughts returning to her morning with Lord Roxwood—yet another pleasant outing turned sour because she couldn’t keep her tongue in her head. Determined to put it from her mind, she glanced up at Becky and asked, “So how did you end up in the Women’s Forage Corps? When Agnes and I arrived, you said your family lived near Margate. Did you hear about joining there?”

Becky nodded. “My family lives in the village of Wreston,
but my pa’s a fisherman out of Margate. He also works at the train station, loading freight when the fish aren’t running. I used to walk into town and bring him supper. While I was there, I’d speak with a few of the locals and that’s how I learned they needed women to help with farming and baling hay.”

She paused to retrieve another chicken, then took it to the pot. “We didn’t live on a farm, but I figured I was strong and could learn to do the work,” she called before returning to the table. “I’d also be helping out my family. With nine brothers and sisters, my pa has to work hard to make ends meet, especially with our appetites.”