Chapter 7 #3
Grace’s own words brought a rush of memories of time with Frederick, and her eyes drifted closed for a moment.
They’d captured so many beautiful days together.
So many marvelous, daring, and delightful adventures.
Wonderful togetherness. And she clung to those reminders when letters took too long to arrive.
When wireless reports shattered her peace.
Her hand went to her stomach.
When she couldn’t know the future.
She swallowed through the emotions in her throat and turned back to Zahra. “I have something to tell you, Zahra.”
Zahra tilted her head, studying Grace with those large gray-green eyes that held far more awareness than Grace had possessed at that age.
A flicker of concern creased the girl’s brow. “Is it about Papa?”
Their thoughts had traveled the same dark path, hadn’t they? To the one missing from their small family.
“No, Papa is well.” As far as Grace knew. As far as his carefully worded letters suggested. “This is about something very good. Something we will share with Lily once she’s returned from Aunt Elinor’s house.”
She took Zahra’s hand and placed it on her belly, the motion almost involuntary. Why would she do that? But for some inexplicable reason, if felt right and intimate and comforting to do so. “I’m going to have a baby.”
Zahra’s concern melted into bright-eyed delight. “I am good with babies.”
Tears pricked Grace’s eyes, but she smiled through them. “Yes, I know you are.”
“And Papa will want a son.”
“Papa will love whatever God brings us,” Grace corrected gently.
Zahra shook her head with the certainty of youth. “He has two daughters and a wife. He needs a son.”
“Well, we cannot know until after Christmas, because that’s when the baby is expected.
” Grace stood, bringing Zahra up with her.
“I was wondering what on earth I would purchase for your papa this year.” She laughed.
“His gift may be a little late to go beneath the Christmas tree, but God knew I had too much to manage to sort it out myself.”
Zahra’s smile widened as she bent to scoop up the cat. “It is the best present. Even if it might be a boy.” She wrinkled her nose in mock displeasure, though the gleam in her eyes betrayed her teasing.
Her humor continued to grow with time just like so much more of her personality.
“I will take Shams for a walk now.” She nodded as she walked to the door.
Grace followed. “Try to keep clear of the patients’ areas, especially with Shams. There’s plenty to explore outdoors without disturbing the men. Do you understand?”
Zahra turned at the threshold, her expression suddenly grave. “Unless I discover clues. And then I must keep watch.”
Grace tried valiantly not to smile, but the pride wiggling up through her failed to stop at merely a thought. “Only if you can be safe and do so.”
They walked to the back stairs, where the girl headed toward the garden entrance. Grace meant to turn toward the main corridor—
But something caught her attention.
Below, Blake stood at one end of the back hall, apparently awaiting Mrs. Powell, who was chattering about attempting to locate a particular key. But Blake wasn’t looking at Mrs. Powell.
He was staring with focused intensity at someone across the corridor.
Miss Helen Gale.
It wasn’t a long exchange, but the way they looked at each other said everything—not like strangers, not like a patient and a servant, but like two people who knew each other far too well.
In only a moment, it passed, and Helen turned and walked away. Her posture was perfect, her steps measured—the picture of a dutiful housemaid returning to her responsibilities.
But Grace had seen her face for just a moment before she turned.
Some sort of unspoken entreaty? Similar to the plea Zahra had just made to Grace about Shams. It was a silent request, but for what?
This was not the first time Grace had been around people who were pretending to be something they were not. Italy was the most memorable, but during all of her and Frederick’s adventures, they had encountered masquerading individuals.
Her attention flicked back to Blake.
But never someone so close to her.
Blake remained in the alcove, his hand pressed against the wall as if he needed the support. His head dropped forward, and Grace saw his shoulders rise and fall with what looked like a shuddering breath.
Very un-Blake-like.
So much more stirred inside the man than the carefree cousin or the charming gentleman.
Then Mrs. Powell turned toward him and he straightened, his expression smoothing back into that pleasant smile he wore so expertly. Was the smile only a mask?
It seemed so.
Then how much more was a lie? His care for Frederick? Or her?
She shook her head. No, surely not.
He moved down the corridor, whistling softly as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As if she hadn’t seen some secret burden he bore.
But there was no mistake. This was not her imagination.
Blake and Helen shared a history of some sort, probably related to whatever Blake was really doing at Havensbrooke and whatever Helen Gale was hiding.
No one looked at someone like that—with that mixture of longing and pain and desperate restraint—unless there was a story behind it. A complicated, dangerous story.
And Blake—dear, charming Blake who joked about everything and kept his real thoughts locked away behind witty remarks—looked at Helen that way.
Grace’s fingers twisted around the stair railing, emotions warring inside of her. She had to think this through. Sort it out. Weed the whimsical from the reality … but it didn’t seem real at all.
Blake wasn’t just here to recuperate. She’d suspected that for days now. And Helen Gale wasn’t just a housemaid. That much was obvious.
But what were they to each other? Colleagues in some sort of secret work? Enemies? Former lovers?
All three, perhaps?
Grace paused in the doorway, looking back at the corridor where they’d stood. The space was empty now, giving no hint of the charged moment that had just played out.
Oh, how she wished Frederick were here. He’d know what to do. He’d understand the implications, would know whether to confront Blake or investigate quietly.
Because if she’d planned to confide in Blake … well, she couldn’t if he was an object of her suspicion or dangerous, now, could she?
But she couldn’t just wait around and do nothing, even without her darling husband.
If he had to be a hero out on the war-torn battlefields of France, then she could certainly try to be a heroine right here in her own home. That’s what the best heroines did. Seized the moment. The opportunity.
Even if it meant confronting Blake directly. Even if it meant putting herself in the middle of whatever spy business he was involved in—which only caused her grin to broaden a little more—because it was clearly spy business at this point.
And she was a little proud of herself at sorting that much out.
Grace squared her shoulders and headed toward the library.
Perhaps she could find some useful volumes on espionage.
Or better yet, perhaps the newest installment of All-Story Weekly had arrived, and she could discover what happened next to Richard Hannay in John Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps.
The frustrating thing about serials was the waiting, and the last issue had ended without revealing who the villains were or whether the hero would sort them out before being injured again.
Her steps quickened. Which was precisely where she found herself in the story of her own life.
And as a detective, a friend, and the lady of this house full of wounded soldiers, she had a duty to ensure this mystery reached a satisfactory—if not entirely happy—conclusion.
Though she rather preferred happy endings.
She’d simply have to work toward that outcome with as much determination as any fictional heroine would.
Pregnant or not.