Chapter Nine
Grace
By the time I woke in the morning, the pounding of my heart had abated; replaced, only, by a new sensation.
A creeping heat that rose to a pulsing need.
When Nicholas returned my kiss, that pulsing need rose to a crescendo.
Desire crashed into me like waves against jagged rock.
My body was brought alive, resurrected from its slumber. Finally.
Finally, I had opened that unfulfilled, unexplored part of me that longed for closeness.
That churned with desire to know what lips, tongue, and teeth felt like.
Nick had been there, holding me close to his hard chest, wrapping me in his strong arms like a cocoon.
His soft mouth seeking mine; lips that awakened a drumming in the most private parts of me.
His deep, yet velvety soft voice muttering into my hair, close to my ear, that everything was going to be okay.
You need never be alone again, Grace.
A shiver rippled through me to remember his words. The words I’d needed to hear all of my long, difficult life. It wasn’t easy admitting that, even to myself, but it was the truth. His closeness soothed so many wounds that I hadn’t even realised were there.
I was almost glad to have seen what I had seen at the window. If I hadn’t stolen away to the library, I wouldn’t have spent the night in his arms.
The weather had kept me awake. With the storm cracking open the sky and flooding my room with silver light, I’d sat up in bed and decided I couldn’t stand it any longer.
It reminded me far too much of Heather House, especially the night I fled from there.
The night I came to Crowthorne House, that magical night, after an eternity lost in the fog.
I thought about the library and decided I could find some comfort there.
I wanted to walk about the place, remember my arm looped in Nick’s, the cosy rumble of his voice as he talked about different aspects of the house with such pride.
It made me wonder how anyone could ever accuse Nick of deliberately burning down the place.
How could he have ever wanted to destroy something he loved? It wasn’t in his nature.
But then again, I barely knew him. He would say the same about me, that I was an innocent woman with a pure heart...and he’d be wrong.
As I scaled the spiral staircase with its gold bannister, a smear of white in my periphery made me halt. I turned my head toward the window and, on a flash of lightning, that is when the face appeared.
The cold, white, disturbed face that looked so much like my own.
I wondered momentarily if it was my reflection, but it couldn’t have been. It was behind the lower window, and I was halfway up the stairs. But there she was.
Her face. I was so certain it was her face.
I screamed and stumbled down the stairs, flying into the hallway with my arms outstretched, my hands clawing the darkness, finding him. There he was, my saviour, to hold me while I cried.
He told me it was impossible for anything or anyone to be there.
It had to be a figment of my imagination.
..and that wasn’t so hard to believe. Not for me.
Not when I’d heard the woodpecker, and saw the rotten fig and the dead cricket teaming with ants.
Not forgetting, of course, the male figure in the park.
They all alluded to something private and horrible that I didn’t want to remember.
But they were insistent, these figures, these omens.
What was one pale face amongst all that? In hindsight, I could see this was a problem with me. I was seeing things, my mind conjuring up things I wanted to forget. I shouldn’t have told him about the pale face.
I had a few short months to prove to Nicholas that I belonged here, that he’d made the right decision, and then I could start my mortuary science course.
If I kept succumbing to my fears and delusions, I risked losing everything, no matter that Nick had caved in and comforted me.
No matter that he’d been my first kiss, reluctant as he was at first. He’d soon tumbled down the well of desire with me, but I was wrong to pull him in.
I was wrong to push him, to blur these lines of professionalism.
He saw my skills, my talents. He saw my worth. He saw me as more than just a suitable farmer’s wife, like Tom did. I couldn’t lose that now.
Before we’d fallen asleep, he’d asked me to forget our kisses, for both our sakes. In the cold light of the morning, I understood why. I’d already crossed too many boundaries. I’d pushed him far enough. If I cared about my place in Crowthorne House, I wouldn’t push him again.
It was my own bad fortune that Maggie was already here in the room when I returned. I could tell by her expression that she knew. I saw her displeasure. Her disapproval.
As the week wore on, her countenance remained; a new dismissive air replacing her previous kindness.
Nick and I, thankfully, were unharmed. We worked easily side by side, and neither of us mentioned that night again.
I dutifully followed every instruction, leaving my foolish emotions well out of our conversations. But the feelings remained, and for me, at least, they were only growing stronger.
My body surged at every glance he gave me, every time our eyes met. I craved his closeness, the cruel rasping of his stubble against my skin. I wanted more. The forbidden deep kissing that stirred the place between my legs... I wanted it all, so badly.
I just couldn’t have it. Time moved on, and we worked past it, focusing on my development.
I was able to attend my first funeral. Marcus, the groundskeeper, apparently pulled duty as a hearse driver, too.
He wore a black suit and gloves, and a smart driving cap on his head.
I wore a simple black dress with long sleeves, and sat beside Marcus on the way to the church.
I bowed at the casket once the pallbearers placed it at the head of the hall, and returned to the very back to the sound of organ music.
We handed out orders of service to the guests, and stood while the mourners spoke.
I watched as the speakers put a hand to the glossy surface of the casket, speaking kind and loving words about the elderly woman inside it; the woman I had helped to embalm.
The woman I had washed, dressed, and decorated with her own make-up.
The guests touched and felt the soft velvety white petals of the lilies I had laid above her.
Pride swelled inside me to know that everything was just as it should be, and that I had done a good job.
Back in the mortuary, I told Nick about my first funeral while he worked on a new client. Nick lifted Mr Collins’ left leg by the ankle and was massaging it, encouraging the blood to flow out, when he first spoke about teaching me to drive.
“Driving?” I asked, aghast. I simply couldn’t imagine it. “Driving a car in the city?”
He chuckled. “It’s a requirement of your role, Grace – and frankly, it’s a practical life skill. You’re learning to drive. I’ll book you the lessons this afternoon. We’ll squeeze them in somehow.”
Nick was using that clipped, deep, yet reassuring tone that I so enjoyed. The tone of a loving father, ensuring that his child got what they needed, and not simply what they desired.
The object in my pocket hummed. It was so alien to me that I almost missed it.
It was the phone Nick had bought for me.
When I took it out, I saw there was a text from an unknown number – but the message made it clear that it was Dorian.
He said he looked forward to Saturday afternoon and, if I was still up for it, he would pick me up at 1:30 p.m.
I could feel Nick’s eyes on me as I stared, frowning, at the rectangular object in my hand.
“It’s Dorian Gable, about Saturday,” I told him.
“You don’t need to announce your messages to me, Grace,” said Nick. I did detect a slight smirk in the corner of his mouth, as if he was actually glad that I’d told him. “Are you still looking forward to it?”
“I am,” I said, pocketing the phone as I assisted in massaging Mr Collins’ right leg. In truth I would be happier down here, in the cold , clean mortuary with Nick, than anywhere else in London or the whole world. When I was around him, I was home.
But he wanted me to go with Dorian, and make new friends, and so I would. For him.
Saturday came.
I looked out of my terrace window and observed the chalky grey clouds gathering, hanging over Crowthorne House like a bad omen.
I put it out of my mind as I dressed and combed my hair, pinning it behind my head in a round coil.
I wore the short white cocktail dress I’d purchased on my shopping trip, and a pair of tall heels that required practice to walk in.
I’d made use of the hard wood flooring in the library, walking up and down, up and down, until I knew I wouldn’t humiliate myself.
All the while I glanced nervously at the window, expecting to see that face again, but it never appeared.
As I looked down at my manicured feet in their new shoes, I realised just how fast I was changing; how far removed I already was from the girl who fled Heather House. The girl who wore rubber boots and raincoats and slept in a bed piled high with musty old blankets, threadbare and eaten by moths.
Yet deep inside, I was still the same Grace; still the same girl who looked unflinchingly at death. Even as I stood before the tall ornate mirror and observed my gradually-changing image, I detected, in the distance, the steady knock of the woodpecker.
A text appeared on my phone from Dorian. Nearly with you.
I took a deep breath and decided to take the mahogany staircase down, using it for practice before the event. I took the steps slowly and as gracefully as I could, holding a tentative hand on the polished bannister without leaning or looking too strained.