Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
T he voyage back to England was a far cry from the tense and tumultuous journey to Ireland. The seas were calm, and no gales or superstitious sailors threatened her person. Grace sat and watched the days go by while trying to determine how the world could look outwardly so calm when inside she felt overturned and empty.
Around her, life continued as though nothing had changed. The others filled the days with easy chatter. The ever lively Joy had taken to entertaining Lady Maeve with tales of their escapades in England, embellished to such a degree that even Maeve managed to forget her troubles and laugh. Mr. Cunningham joined in the merriment as usual. The kittens proved an endless source of amusement, tumbling over each other in pursuit of Joy’s ribbons and drawing laughter from all corners of the deck.
Lady Maeve appeared to be recovering quickly. The sea air seemed to agree with her, and as the bruises faded so did her reticence. Grace could not help but feel a sense of obligation to her—this young woman who had endured so much. Yet Maeve was also a painful reminder of her brother, with those piercing eyes and shining black locks. From there her mind created memories of Ronan’s intense gaze, and the unbridgeable distance that now yawned between them.
Once back in England, Grace moved through her days like a shadow of herself. No one mentioned the ordeal, as if it had never existed. Most of her days were spent in the gardens despite the cold, staring at nothing. Even reading had lost its allure.
It was during one of these moments of reflection that the Dowager Viscountess Lady Westwood approached in her wheeled chair. She was a fragile-appearing woman with sharp eyes that missed nothing, and she carried herself with a grace that belied her age. Without preamble, she stopped beside Grace, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap.
“You look as though you’ve lost something, Grace,” the Dowager Viscountess said, her tone light but pointed.
Grace blinked, startled out of her reverie. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“You have been wandering about like a ghost since your return,” the Dowager continued. “It is most unbecoming in a young woman to mope, especially one with so much life ahead of her.”
Grace flushed, lowering her gaze. “I apologize if I have been remiss in my conduct.”
“Do not mistake me,” the Dowager said briskly. “I am not trying to scold you, Grace, but I find it curious that a young lady who showed such courage and resourcefulness to rescue the young maiden…”
Grace looked up sharply.
“Oh, yes, I have heard it all. But you are behaving as though you have left something behind in Ireland.”
Grace’s hands twisted in her lap. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Do you not?” the Dowager’s sharp gaze seemed to pierce through her. “Perhaps I am mistaken, but I suspect that your heart is more disquieted than you would care to admit.”
Grace opened her mouth to protest, but the elder woman waved her hand dismissively. “I shall not pry, my dear, but take it from someone who has lived long enough to know better—when one’s heart is wounded, it is best to address it straight away rather than let it fester. Find that courage again, my dear. Do come in from the cold soon.”
Before Grace could respond, the Dowager turned and rolled away, leaving Grace to grapple with her thoughts in silence. “’Tis all very well, but he does not want me. How am I supposed to face the pain with courage when he made it clear there was nothing between us?”
Yet she knew the Dowager was right. She could not allow herself to waste away, pining for something that could never be.
She went inside, the warmth of the house enveloping her. Her limbs began prickling as the warmth infused her body. How long had she been out there? Chafing her hands together, she went to find her sisters for advice. Perhaps keeping busy would keep her thoughts from straying to Carew. She stopped short of entering the drawing room, however, when she overheard them discussing her.
“I have just come from speaking with Grace,” she heard the Dowager say. “I may have been too harsh with her.”
“You have noticed it as well. I have tried to give her time, but it is clear something is wrong,” Patience’s voice added. “She has endured so much, from the unexpected journey alone and then witnessing Flynn’s death. She is more tender-hearted than I when it comes to those things.”
“I do not think that is it at all, my dear.”
“You think she is heartsick for Carew?”
“I suspect that is very much the case. Even I knew she was taken with him during her first Season. Who would not be? Even at my age, a roguish look from those blue eyes makes my heart palpitate,” spoken with wry amusement.
“She did mention having feelings for him.” Grace could hear the dismay in Patience’s voice. “But I saw no signs of an attachment while we were there. I thought they parted amicably.”
“My dear, I am not sure you see anything besides dear Ashley at the moment.”
“Perhaps so.” Patience sounded amused. “But why did she not say anything?”
“Perhaps she did not wish to put a damper on your own happiness. And with Carew’s sister present…it is not Grace’s way.”
Grace hated that they were speaking of her heartache so openly, but if no one besides Maeve had seen an attachment on Carew’s part, then it must have been a figment of her imagination. Had Carew kissed her out of pity?
The thought made her cheeks burn with shame. He had been kind to her, yes, but he had made no promises. He had not played the rogue. He had simply…been. Even so, he had no intention of offering for her. It was time to put him out of her mind.
“Since a scandal has been averted, Westwood does not wish for the attachment. Of course, he knows Carew better than anyone and he thinks Grace would do better with someone more suited to her,” the Dowager continued.
Grace wondered how well anyone actually knew her at all. Carew was the only one who had ever turned her head, and the thought of facing a third Season of looking for a match was enough to send her spirits plummeting further into the abyss. She might as well tell Westwood to arrange something for her and save herself the trouble, though spinsterhood was looking more and more appealing by the moment. She was now an aunt, and could be as doting and as eccentric as she liked.
“Sometimes I think Grace is the most innocent of us all,” Patience remarked.
“Where Carew is the most experienced? I do not know, my dear, but Grace sees something in him and it should be her decision.”
“Perhaps,” Patience said again, sounding hesitant.
“Now come, Patience. Just because she is not as outspoken as you does not mean she is not entitled to her own opinions and choices.”
“You are right, of course, but is it wrong for me to want to protect her?”
Grace’s heart squeezed. She felt the same about her sisters.
“I fear it may be too late for that, but perhaps you can see to helping her find her way through this maze.” The Dowager’s wisdom was much needed, Grace mused, although she hated to hear herself discussed so. Nonetheless, she knew they were worried for her.
“Should we send for Faith and Hope? Maybe having everyone together would buoy her spirits.”
“I have spoken to her. Let us see if she rallies.”
Her family meant well, but there was much they did not understand. Yet she could not bring herself to tell them all that had happened. Perhaps it was for the best to keep it to herself since it meant so little to Carew. However, the experience had changed her, for better or worse.
Grace turned and walked quietly back to her room, where Theo was bathing himself in the sunlight on the chair by the window. Stretched out on his back with his paws covering his face, it was hard not to smile at the creature. She stroked his soft fur, and his purrs began immediately without even opening his eyes. To be able to love and trust so unconditionally…that settled it. She would replace Carew in her heart with a dozen cats. Would that be enough?
It had been four weeks and one day since they had left. Ronan could not help but count the days. He’d spent all day and half of every night working with the horses. There was a soothing simplicity to their needs. A horse did not obscure its intentions behind a veil of civility or pretence. Though their wills could be a battle, he welcomed the challenge. His thoughts could not waver when breaking a horse, and so it was his chosen remedy. Exhaustion was the best remedy for a broken heart. When he worked until his muscles burned and his head ached from the sun, there was little energy left for thoughts of Grace Whitford. His mind had not yet learned to control his dreams, however. Eventually, he’d hear of Grace’s betrothal to some worthy gentleman, and then he’d suffer anew. It was no less than he deserved as penance for his sins.
“Are you finished for now, me lord?” Paddy, the stable hand, approached and took the reins of the gelding Ronan had been working with. The boy jerked his head towards the paddock fence, where Ronan’s mother stood watching him, her face shadowed with concern.
Ronan sighed, removed his hat, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Mother,” he greeted her as he approached. “What brings you out here?”
“It is the only way to have a word with you these days,” she replied, her tone carrying a note of reproach.
“Is something amiss? Has something happened to Father?” Ronan asked, straightening instinctively.
“Your father is quite well, actually,” she said, and Ronan noted a hint of satisfaction in her tone. Even the stable hands had spoken of his lordship leaving his chambers regularly, a marked improvement from his previous seclusion.
“I have received a letter from England,” she continued, holding out an envelope. “I thought you might wish to read it.”
Ronan eyed the letter warily. “A summary from you will do just as well.”
“I think not,” she said firmly, thrusting the letter closer. “You have never been a coward, Ronan.”
He sighed and took the letter from her, his fingers hesitating on the seal. “You deserve to be happy,” she said softly. “Whatever you think your past has made you, it also made you the man you are now. That does not mean you must sacrifice the one you love as a penance.”
Ronan’s gaze drifted to the pastures, where the horses grazed in peace. “I have already told her to find someone else worthy.”
His mother tilted her head, her brow arching in mild challenge. “Did you decide this for her, or did you deign to ask her what she wanted?”
“’Tis not so simple, Mother.”
“Is it not?”
Ronan opened his mouth to reply but found no words. The unspoken answer hung between them. He could not answer that.
Changing approach, she said, “Will you join us for church today?”
“Us?”
“Your father wishes to attend services. Since it has been years since he felt like going, I thought perhaps you and I could also make the effort.”
Ronan frowned, caught by surprise. “I had forgotten it was Sunday.”
“Well, remember now. If your father wishes to leave the castle, we should rejoice.”
His mother turned and left him to the letter.
Reluctantly, he opened it and read.
My dearest Mama,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits, and to reassure you I am recovering well. The journey here was uneventful. The Channel holds little beauty to the Irish Sea, though I will admit the cliffs in Sussex rival our own. England has its own charm, though it is very different from the beauty of Donnellan.
Now that I am safely ensconced in Westwood House, London, I can admit to buoying spirits and the wisdom of healing in a new place. London is bustling with a liveliness that is almost dizzying, and the people are as varied as they are fascinating. It is never quiet here. I am slowly beginning to feel at ease, and my hosts are everything that is good. Your absence is keenly felt, though I have been fortunate to find new friendships here that make the days brighter.
Miss Joy Whitford has been a constant delight. She is, without doubt, the most lively and enchanting person I have ever met. She possesses a spirit that refuses to be dimmed, a quality that I find both inspiring and infectious. She has taken it upon herself to befriend me, and I must confess I have rarely laughed so freely. Whether it is some unintentional mischief or the antics of her kittens, there is always something to draw a smile.
Yet, even in the midst of such liveliness, not all are happy. Miss Grace carries a sadness that she cannot hide from those who care for her. They are concerned about her. Even I find her changed from our brief acquaintance at Donnellan. She is as kind and thoughtful as ever, but her smiles are few, and her laughter seems to belong more to memory than to the present. I wish I could lighten her heart as Joy has lightened mine, but I find myself at a loss. There are moments when I catch her gazing out of the window, or she sits in the gardens alone. I wonder what thoughts keep her so. It is clear that she is struggling with some sorrow, though she does not speak of it. Forgive me if this is impertinent, but please tell Ronan I think perhaps she misses him.
I wish to be of what comfort I can, though I know I cannot replace what she feels she has lost. Joy and I have often sought to include her in our little amusements, but I suspect she finds more solace in solitude than in our chatter. Still, I hope that, in time, her spirits will lift. I wish to help her as she helped me, though I suspect I remind her of who she longs for.
Please give my love to all at home, and be reassured I am well. Though I am far away, my heart remains with you, and I think of you often and do wish you could share this with me.
Your ever loving daughter,
Maeve
The chapel was ancient, its stone walls warmed by shafts of sunlight streaming through the high, arched windows. Ronan sat beside his mother and father, feeling an unusual weight in the simplicity of the moment while reflecting on Maeve’s words about Grace. Could it be she mourned for him as he did for her? His father, though still frail, sat upright with a strength Ronan had not seen in years. The sight brought a pang of something—pride, perhaps, or hope.
After the hymns were sung, the vicar took to the pulpit, his measured gaze sweeping over the congregation before he began. “I wish to speak on something we often overlook,” he announced, his voice calm but commanding. “Grace.”
Ronan’s breath stilled in his chest. The word struck him like a physical blow, and though he knew it was irrational, he felt as though every eye in the room had turned to him. The vicar continued, oblivious to Ronan’s inner turmoil.
“Not everyone will agree with me,” the vicar said, “but the more I learn of the Scriptures, and from His Holy Word in the New Testament writings, the more I believe it to be the truth. Works and deeds are an outward manifestation of our love, but nothing we do ourselves will save us. It is only by grace.”
Ronan could not stop the words echoing over and over in his mind and heart. Only by Grace.
“Grace can be hard to accept,” the vicar went on. “We judge ourselves unworthy and feel we must be perfect, but this is not what the Scriptures tell us is necessary.”
He paused, then quoted with quiet reverence, “For it is written in the second book of Corinthians: And He said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for My strength is made perfect in weakness. So, brethren, forgive yourself and accept His grace, for God will forgive you.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened and he looked down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. The words reverberated through him, disturbing in their simplicity. Was that not precisely what he had refused to do? He had judged himself unworthy—not only of forgiveness but of Grace herself.
He heard very little after that, ruminating on the vicar’s words. Could it be possible? Was there still hope for him? Hope for him and Grace?
After the service, the congregation gathered outside the chapel, exchanging pleasantries and offering kind words to Lord Donnellan, who greeted everyone pleasantly. Ronan mustered his control through this ordeal even though his impatience to be gone was growing by the minute.
“Ronan,” his mother said, catching his elbow as they made their way back to the carriage. “If that wasn’t a sign, I do not know what could be more plain. For once, do something for yourself.”
“It is obvious to anyone with eyes that you love that lass,” his father interjected, surprising him.
Ronan hesitated, the weight of his father’s words pressing against the doubts he had carried for weeks. “She deserves better than I,” he murmured. “A man without so many sins to his name.”
“Nonsense,” his father said sharply. “Do you think I did not feel the same when I courted your mother? She was as stubborn as she was beautiful, and I was nothing more than a young lord with too much pride and not enough sense. I had to fight tooth and nail for her favour—prove myself worthy of her in every way.”
Ronan blinked in surprise. “You have never told me that.”
“Because it mattered not once I had her,” Lord Donnellan said, his gaze softening. “But let me tell you this, Ronan: I would have moved mountains for that woman, and I still would. If you feel the same for Grace then you had better stop wallowing in self-doubt and go and get her.”
Ronan’s chest tightened, his father’s words cutting through his defences like a blade. “Mayhap I have already ruined my chance.”
Lord Donnellan fixed him with a stern look. “Then work twice as hard to win her back. Prove to her that you are the man she deserves. ’Tis not about being perfect, lad—’tis about being willing.”
Ronan said nothing, his thoughts too tangled for speech. But as the carriage began its slow journey back to the castle, the weight of the vicar’s words and his parent’s insistence bore down on him. Perhaps it was time to stop running—from himself, from his past, and from the possibility of something greater than his fears.