Not by Sight (13 page)

Grace had noticed Becky’s second and third helpings at supper. Yet she kept silent. Hadn’t her blabbering already gotten her into enough trouble today?

“I do like to eat,” Becky said matter-of-factly, reading her thoughts as she grabbed another fistful of feathers. “Working at a farm instead of a factory means better food. Why, I’ve never seen so much in my life!” She held up the chicken she’d been plucking. “Even the Army rations taste good, and Mr. Tillman gives us all the fresh fruit and vegetables we can eat. I get to go to bed with a full belly each night and send money home.” She glanced up. “My younger sister, Ruthie, catches a lift to Roxwood every other Sunday. I meet her after church and give her my earnings to take to our mum.”

There was more to Becky Simmons than she’d first imagined, Grace decided with admiration. “Do you have plans for after the war?”

Becky shook her head. “We’ve been fighting for so long, I hadn’t stopped to think about what I’ll do when it’s all over.”

“One day our soldiers will defeat the Germans,” Grace said and tried to quell her anxiety over Colin’s lack of correspondence. “You’ll have to consider your future. You’re a smart woman to weigh all the benefits before deciding to join the
Women’s Forage Corps.” She paused. “You bake the most marvelous yeast rolls and barley bread. Why, your crumpets with butter and jam are the best I’ve ever tasted. Have you considered owning a bakery?”

“How did you know?” Becky gasped. “I used to dream about having my own shop. I’d bake fresh breads, meat pasties, sausage rolls, scones, even tea cakes just like the bakery in Margate, only my shop would be in my family’s village. That way I could be close and take care of them.” Determination lit the oolong-colored eyes. “I’d make sure they never went hungry.”

“There’s nothing to stop you, Becky.”

She snorted. “I’ve little schooling and not a farthing to spare. I can bake, but it won’t buy me a shop.”

“Women’s suffrage will change that,” Grace insisted. “Once we win the right to vote, we’ll enact laws to help more women like you get the means to start a business. You could go back to school if you wish, or apprentice at the Margate Bakery and one day take over the running of their shop.”

When Becky seemed uncertain, Grace added, “Anything is possible, you need only try. With your wits and your fearlessness for hard work, I believe you shall succeed.”

Becky smiled. “I hadn’t thought about the dream for a long while. But when you put it like that, maybe I do have a chance.”

“No doubt about it.” Grace reached for another chicken in the tub. “Who would have thought one day I’d be plucking chickens?”

They gazed at each other over the enormous pile of feathers and laughed.

———

“So, how was Margate?” Grace asked at supper that night. Snatching another one of Becky’s delicious rolls from the basket, she broke it apart and dunked it into her soup, feeling freer than she had in a long while. Not only had she plucked dead
chickens all afternoon, but now she was being “coarse” while eating her food. Da would have a fit at such vulgarity!

“It’s a busy town with miles of seashore,” Agnes said, before tucking into another spoonful of Ida Vance’s hearty bean and vegetable soup.

“Yes, and we met more WFC women at the station, who reweighed and loaded our b-bales onto freight cars,” Lucy added. “And such sights in the bustling place! There was a kind of amusement park next to the railway, but I didn’t get to go in and see it.” She glanced toward Agnes. “I had to wait with the horses while Mr. Tillman searched for Agnes.”

Grace paused in taking a bite of her biscuit to stare at her maid. “What happened?”

“This will sound silly, miss, but . . . I got lost,” Agnes said, her cheeks turning a bright hue. She stirred the soup in her bowl. “Lucy said Merry hadn’t eaten this morning and that the mare seemed sluggish on the way to town. She wanted to try giving her some ginger powder, so I offered to fetch it from the Margate chemist while she stayed with the horses.”

“Mr. Tillman went to buy a new belt for the steam baler at the hardware shop,” Lucy supplied. “When he returned and Agnes was still gone, he went to find her.”

“I must have taken a wrong turn outside the chemist’s shop,” Agnes said. “For about an hour it felt like I walked in circles. I was so relieved when Mr. Tillman finally found me.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it. In the last few weeks it seems like we’ve traveled over half the country, yet I ended up turned around within a few city blocks.”

The others smiled as Grace reached for Agnes’s hand. “Well, I’m glad all ended well. But surely you must have been frightened being gone all that time?” She recalled her own harried experience getting lost in the hedge maze.

Agnes nodded, all humor gone. Grace could feel her maid’s
hand trembling beneath her own. “I admit, it was an alarming experience—one I don’t wish to repeat.”

“Well, Pierpont, you had an adventure today,” Mrs. Vance said. “Next time, you must ask directions.” She turned to Grace. “Mabry, Simmons tells me you did a fine job plucking chickens today. I think you were meant for farming.”

This brought a round of chuckles from the others, and even Agnes smiled.

“I’d hardly make a decent farmer,” Grace said before a yawn escaped her. “Though I am learning the meaning of hard work. I don’t think I’ve slept so well in a long time.”

Grace couldn’t sleep that night. The others had gone to bed an hour ago, while she lay awake in the semidarkness. Already she’d gone over her journal notes twice in her mind, pleased over her colorfully detailed passage about her adventurous chicken plucking that afternoon. She’d also written of Agnes’s ordeal at Margate. She embellished her notes a bit for a future story, beginning with how her friend had been kidnapped by pirates, but then changed her mind. Instead she penned how Agnes found her family among the Belgian refugees arriving daily to Britain’s shores. They convinced her to move north with them, and no one at Roxwood ever heard from her again.

Her forehead creased. A happy ending for Agnes and her family, perhaps, but what about those she left behind? Grace hadn’t forgotten the photograph in Agnes’s bag. The knowledge that her friend withheld secrets from her still hurt.

She rolled over and again closed her eyes, yet her mind refused to sleep. The entry where she’d written about her morning outing with Jack Benningham sprang into her thoughts.

Grace smiled into the darkness, recalling his promise to publish her story “Miller’s Farm.” Even if he had only been teasing,
as a novelist one day, she knew his endorsement would most assuredly help.

The harsh exchange they shared afterward came to mind, and her smile faded. He’d been so angry, yet she only meant to point out his life wasn’t over simply because he couldn’t see. Jack Benningham seemed eaten up by bitterness, his convalescence more a means to turn away from his family and the society of his friends. Perhaps even his faith, if he’d ever had any.

Grace sighed against her pillow. Jack Benningham needed God in his life. She fancied pulling up with the Daimler tomorrow morning and whisking him off to church and one of Reverend Price’s sermons. Of course, he would likely fire her on the spot. Well, he couldn’t stop her praying for his miserable, pocked soul . . .

The sound of a bed creaking nearby caught her attention.

Someone was moving. Grace turned her head, and with her eyes accustomed to the dark she spied the silhouette of her chicken-plucking companion. Becky Simmons gathered her trench coat and a pair of boots before making her way stealthily toward the bedroom door.

The woman hardly needed her boots to visit the indoor privy. Curiosity burned in Grace as she, too, rose from her bed and grabbed similar clothing. She intended to follow Becky downstairs, but before she reached the bottom step, the front door to the gatehouse had opened and closed.

Shoving her feet into the boots, Grace rushed outside. Becky rode her bicycle toward the farm. The last streaks of light had faded from the sky, the half-moon glowing brightly. Grace hopped on a bicycle and rode in pursuit.

What was Becky doing? Her mind raced, along with her feet on the pedals. Did she have some secret assignation? Perhaps a boy from the village, or one of the young soldiers returning home.

Grace pedaled faster. Becky was going to open her own bakery one day. The last thing she needed was to get into trouble.

Becky stopped at the barn. She leaned her bicycle against the siding and turned to scan the area. Then she walked past the overhang and disappeared from view.

She
was
meeting someone! Grace pedaled up to the barn and abandoned her bicycle. Following past the chicken coops and pigpen, she saw Becky enter a familiar cottage-sized stone structure beyond the vegetable garden.

She was meeting her sweetheart . . . in the game larder?

Grace edged toward the entrance. The door was closed, so she moved around to the side where a window allowed her to see. Even in darkness, she spied the stocky woman removing three of the birds they’d hung earlier.

Dawning struck, and without further consideration, Grace went inside. “Becky, please stop.”

She heard a series of thuds as the chickens hit the stone floor.

“Grace?” Panic laced Becky’s whisper. “You followed me here?”

“Your sister, Ruthie, comes to town tomorrow, doesn’t she?” Grace said by way of an answer. “You’re going to send those chickens home with her?”

A sob tore through the dark. “Lord Roxwood has so much,” she cried. “And the last time Ruthie was here, she told me Pa hurt his back at the freight station. He can’t work. I didn’t think anyone would notice three chickens gone.”

“God would notice, Becky. And so would you.” Grace spoke gently. “Please, don’t do this. Stealing is wrong, regardless of how many chickens Lord Roxwood has in his possession. You must have faith. Things will turn around.”

“How, Grace?” Becky’s tone held a ragged edge. “What I send home barely helps.”

“You’re being tested right now, don’t you see? Is your peace of mind worth three chickens?”

“It is,” Becky said in a mutinous tone. “Having peace is fine when your pa is rich. But mine is poor, and you have no idea what it’s like to worry if you’ll have food enough to eat.”

“You’re right, I’ve never gone hungry. But I know what it’s like to be frightened. I also know fear can sometimes make us do things we regret.” An image of her mother’s lovely face, her look of hurt, flashed in Grace’s mind. “Afterward we are never the same.”

“I can’t imagine you having any regrets.”

Grace tried to blink away the image. “I’m human enough. I’ve had my share.” Then sensing Becky’s capitulation, she added, “Tell me, will you be able to sit in church tomorrow with a clear conscience . . . or not?”

A shadow of movement caught her eye as Becky bent to retrieve the chickens and then rehung them from the ceiling hooks. “All right,” she said tiredly. “We’ll try it your way. I just hope faith will put food on my family’s table.”

“You won’t regret it,” Grace said, relieved. “Now, let’s get back before we’re missed.”

Becky followed her outside, and the two returned to the gatehouse and slipped upstairs.

Lying in bed, Grace stared into the darkness a long while before she finally closed her eyes. She smiled, knowing how she might help Becky’s faith along.

10

Jack was about to depart the study with Edwards when Knowles intercepted him.

“Pardon, milord, but the new physician has arrived.”

More quackery.
“Take him into the library,” Jack instructed. “I’ll be there presently. By the way, have you spoken with Miss Mabry?”

“She called for you earlier, milord. As you instructed, I informed her you had business this morning and wouldn’t be available.”

Jack gave a jerk of his head, then heard Knowles’s retreat. “Who is this doctor, Edwards?”

“Daniel Strom, milord. When Dr. Black went to the Front, he took over his patients.”

Jack’s jaw tightened as he strode toward the library. He wearied of these sessions, little more than a lecture and a bit of hand-holding over what he already knew—he was blind, and his scars were healing. It seemed a complete waste of time.

———

“Lord Roxwood. I’m Dr. Strom, from Broad Oak, near Sturry. It’s a privilege to meet with you,” the voice of an older man called to Jack as he entered the library and closed the doors.

“Dr. Strom.” Jack spoke with forced calm. “I apologize you had to come all this way. As you can see, I’m perfectly capable, despite my blindness. Your time is better spent helping your patients.”

“
You
are one of my patients,” Strom said. “And it’s not so far. I’m happy to be here. Why don’t you sit on the divan and take off your mask so I can conduct an examination. By the way, is that the new splatter mask I’ve read about? The one our tank drivers at the Front will soon be wearing?”

Jack nodded. “A prototype.” He loosened the ties and removed the mask. The air felt cool against his sensitive flesh. “Having a friend in the Admiralty does pay off.”

“Indeed.”

Jack heard a chair being dragged across the carpet and then sensed Strom directly in front of him. “Before he left, Dr. Black told me you always wear the mask, though he didn’t prescribe it to you. Why is that?”

“He instructed I should keep my skin out of direct sunlight while it heals. The mask was my solution. I was also told to wear a layer of gauze beneath to prevent irritation.”

“You’re not wearing the gauze now.”

“The procedure grew tiresome. The mask no longer bothers my skin.”

“But why wear it indoors?” Strom had begun to prod with a finger the tender flesh surrounding Jack’s eyes. “Being out of direct light, the air would certainly help you heal faster.”

“Because I prefer it,” Jack said, pulling back from Strom’s examination. He’d endured enough jabbing and poking by doctors while he was in hospital. “And why should I subject my household staff to this?” He pointed at his face.

“Your scars aren’t all that ghastly,” Strom said gently. “Now, I’d like to examine your eyes. If you’ll allow me, I’ll add drops to dilate the pupils.”

Jack tipped his head back. “Steady,” Strom said, and Jack felt him pull back each lid and bathe his eyes in cool liquid.

“I’ll be using a lighted ophthalmoscope to examine the retina,” the doctor explained.

“I’ve endured this procedure before. For a country doctor, you seem well versed in optometry.”

“With the war on I’ve found it necessary to broaden my range of medical skills. Now, let me take a look.”

He held still while Strom did his work. For a fleeting instant, Jack thought he detected a flash—was it light?—but then it was gone.

“Very good,” Strom said when he’d finished. Jack refrained from saying anything. Surely he’d imagined it.

The doctor’s bag closed with a snap. “I don’t want to give you false hope, Lord Roxwood, but I cannot see any retinal damage. It’s possible that with time you might regain your sight.”

“You’re right, Strom. I don’t want your hope, false or otherwise.” Jack quelled his anger. “I’m blind and I’ve accepted it. The price for being a bit too . . . careless one night.”

He’d intended the remark to corroborate the Admiralty’s cover story, so Jack was surprised when Strom said, “Dr. Black told me about the explosion aboard ship. Your wounds were not caused through carelessness, Lord Roxwood, but because of your duty to king and country. And though the world doesn’t know it, for those of us who do, we are thankful and proud for your service to the Crown.”

Jack thought of Hugh and how the war ultimately destroyed him. “Sometimes, gratitude isn’t enough. And pride can be fatal. Doesn’t the Bible mention something about it ‘going before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall’?”

“Proverbs sixteen, verse eighteen,” Strom said. “Do you consider your actions that night prideful, my lord?”

Jack let out a rusty laugh. “That night and every other, Doc
tor. I had a rogue’s reputation to uphold, after all. So while I was engaged to one woman, I flirted with another—a bewitching green-eyed beauty whose loveliness distracted me and nearly led to my demise. And the price for that arrogance?” Jack reached for his mask on the divan beside him. “Aside from my present condition, my fiancée wishes to be rid of me, while those enchanting green eyes I spoke about live only in my memory.”

“You cannot know the future, my lord,” Strom said. “There is always hope.”

“Then you can hope for both of us,” Jack said. “I’ll defer mine until it bears fruit.” He rose from the divan. “Please understand, Doctor. Being ostracized because of one’s appearance is a difficult burden. I don’t care to add to it the weight of more disappointment.”

Strom said nothing. Jack then heard the chair being dragged back across the room.

“We’re finished here, my lord,” Strom said finally, and Jack retied his mask in place. “But please, don’t discount yourself. There’s more to you than a few scars. I’m certain many appreciate you. Your staff, for instance. Perhaps you simply need to get out and start enjoying life again. Keeping to this house all the time can do more harm than good to the spirit. In fact, on Saturday there’s to be a dance held in the village, a welcome-home celebration for the chaps on leave from the war. As the tenants rely on your baronetcy for their livelihood, it would be a good show of support if you attended.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Dr. Strom. And for your information, I do not keep to the house. I’ve hired a chauffeur, who drives me daily into the country. As Miss Mabry’s conversation keeps me adequately entertained, I’m in no need of dancing.”

“Ah, you’ve met our Grace, then.”

Jack froze. “You know her?”

“I should hope so. Her mother was my cousin, though I haven’t seen Grace since last year, and her brother even longer, before he went off to war. The Women’s Forage Corps supervisor, Mrs. Vance, tells me she is doing well enough. Would you agree?”

“Yes,” Jack said slowly. “Why haven’t you been to see her?”

Strom chuckled. “Part of her father’s pact with me, my lord. I’ve been charged with keeping an eye on her. Patrick Mabry is most anxious about his daughter’s safety. His concern is warranted, what with all the bombing in and around London in the past few months. Apparently she finally wore him down to allow her some occupation to aid in the war effort. When he dissuaded her from the more dangerous jobs, she settled on leaving home to work at baling hay for horses. He agreed, but arranged for her to work in this county so as to be near family.

“Since I have patients here, I occasionally check in with Mrs. Vance to see how Grace is getting on—without her knowledge, of course. I’m afraid she’d be angry if she knew I was checking up on her at her father’s behest. You won’t tell her, my lord?”

“Certainly not.” Jack felt lighthearted and grinned at the irony. Grace Mabry could hardly be a spy when she was being spied upon. She’d merely been maneuvered to Kent in order to be near her cousin. And Strom’s story corroborated Grace’s explanation of her father being conventional and overprotective. It all seemed to fit. Apparently even traitors loved their daughters. “Do you plan to avoid Miss Mabry the entire time she is at Roxwood?”

“No, I intend to renew our acquaintance at the dance. Mrs. Vance told me yesterday she’ll allow the girls to attend. I hope you change your mind and decide to be there as well, Lord Roxwood. Our boys would appreciate it.”

“I’ll think on it.” After his last drive into the village with Grace, Jack was reluctant to once again confront the gawkers of Roxwood.

“I’ll take my leave, then, my lord. You’re healing nicely. I’ll recheck you in a fortnight, but do try and keep the mask off when you can. The air will accelerate healing.”

“Thank you, Dr. Strom.” Jack extended a hand, eager to send the doctor on his way.

He planned to fetch Grace, as they still had the entire afternoon at their disposal. Breathing deep beneath his mask, Jack smiled. Perhaps he would surprise her with a trip to Margate, after all. As before, the thought of being seen in such a public place made his insides clench. But for Grace, he would make an exception.

The women were lunching in the south pasture when they caught sight of Mr. Tillman riding toward them on Merry.

“The ginger powder you put into the mare’s feed seems to be working wonders, Lucy,” Grace said, seated across from her on a bale of hay. “It’s hard to believe Merry was so listless a few days ago.”

Lucy dusted bread crumbs from her uniform. “I thought she might be suffering from a sour stomach. My mum used to fix us ginger t-tea, and it always worked.”

“You’ve got a real gift in those hands,” Grace said, then winced as she flexed her fingers. “Right now mine are stiff as whalebone after cutting and tying baling wire all morning.”

“At least you had those.” Seated beside her on the bale, Clare looked pointedly at the handheld wire cutters resting in Grace’s lap.

Grace tilted her chin and quipped back, “I could have used my teeth.”

Agnes gave a snort of hyena laughter that caused a burst of hilarity from the others. “Oh, miss, that would be a sight to see,” she said as the amusement died down. Wiping at her
eyes, she was grinning, and it pleased Grace to see her so happy and carefree.

“I wish she had used her teeth,” Clare said, winking at Agnes. “Then she wouldn’t be able to chew the last piece of Becky’s vegetable pie.” She gave Grace a playful nudge. “How did you manage to get your hands on it, Mabry?”

Becky sat atop the baler. Grace noticed her apple-cheeked features tense. “The pie was my reward,” she said smoothly, “for helping Becky with the chickens.”

In truth, she
had
dissuaded Becky from stealing two or three of them. Grace considered it providential that Reverend Price chose yesterday morning to sermonize on the perils of stealing. Becky sat next to her in the pew and kept reaching to squeeze her hand. Grace didn’t know if it was due to the money envelope she’d left under Becky’s pillow that morning or the ability to sit in church with a clear conscience. Either way, after her younger sister, Ruthie, departed with the funds, Becky had returned to the gatehouse to bake a vegetable pie just for Grace.

“Becky, next t-time you need help, I’m available,” Lucy piped up. “And I love your buttermilk scones.”

The others chuckled while Becky looked relieved her secret was safe.

“Miss Mabry!”

Grace was still smiling when she turned to see Mr. Tillman swinging down from the saddle. Approaching, he called out, “Mr. Edwards says you’re to come up to the manor. Seems his lordship wants an outing, after all.”