Chapter 1 #2
Grace attempted to quell her smile at the moniker. As rare as those smiles but becoming more frequent too.
When Frederick had been called to war, it had taken Zahra months to find her smile again, let alone renew referring to them as Mama and Papa. Whatever Frederick’s leaving had caused in the little girl stung very deeply, perhaps reminding her of her lonely past of loss and abandonment.
And if Zahra’s pain was even close to what Grace felt at Frederick’s absence, she could completely understand the need for time to adjust. Though she never wished to become accustomed to his absence.
So she had to ensure she spent as little time as possible thinking about gunfire and cannons and poisonous gas wherever he was. And turning Havensbrooke into a hospital had helped. She’d been wonderfully busy. Too many things to occupy her every waking moment.
She drew in a breath to steady her sudden rise of emotions.
It was the nights that had grown so long.
Oh, how she felt in such a real way the ache she had read about in some of her favorite works of fiction. The longing for her beloved. The concern for his return.
These feelings had led her to reread Jane Austen’s Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility (both full of longing with happy reunions at the end) and Dumas’ Count of Monte Cristo (no happy reunion at all and rather an indifferent ending for a romantic) several times over, just to know she was not alone in her feelings.
Frederick had been recalled to his former position as a major in the Royal Engineers, stationed somewhere near Ypres—or at least that’s what his last heavily censored letter suggested through careful mentions of “dampness” and “bridge work.” Frederick had always been talented at getting messages past the censors through their private codes, though it did take Grace spending copious amounts of time researching to sort them out.
She paused on the thought. Perhaps that’s why he did it all along. He knew she’d enjoy the enigmas.
She almost smiled. What a lovely thought.
She sighed. What a lovely man.
Her palm went to her chest as the branching ache spread its familiar tendrils through her middle. Oh, how I miss him.
“Take her on, Zahra.” Grace nudged the girl toward the doorway. “I am certain Nurse Wilson, as well as everyone else, needs time to sort out this catastrophe.”
As Zahra disappeared with her new companion, Grace turned back to the chaos. She met Nurse Wilson’s gaze and knelt to gather up some of the scattered medical supplies. “I do apologize. Though in Zeus’ defense, he was only following his natural instincts. Can’t really blame a dog for being a dog.”
Nurse Wilson’s expression suggested she could, in fact, blame the dog quite thoroughly. “Perhaps, Lady Astley, we might consider keeping the dog out of doors, or at the very least away from the hospital wing? For hygiene purposes, if nothing else?”
“Excellent suggestion.” Grace smiled and placed the supplies on the tray, then turned toward the room. “Now, while you see to Corporal Jones’ bandages, I’ll help Private Jenkins rescue Corporal MacLeish’s cards from the tea situation.”
“Yes, my lady,” Jenkins said, his lips curling with a wink. “Perfect timing too, ma’am. MacLeish was winning against Ashford.”
MacLeish made some comment in such a deep Scottish growl Grace didn’t understand it, but from the widening grin on Jenkins’ face, it must have been some sort of insult.
It would be rather exciting to learn a new language. Zahra knew Arabic. MacLeish knew Gaelic. Grace had even heard Nurse Wilson speak French, Italian, and some other less familiar language.
Rather impressive for a nurse, actually. Grace made a mental note to ask about it sometime when the woman wasn’t glowering at overturned medical supplies.
“Lady Astley.” Mary, one of the housemaids, appeared in the doorway and dipped a curtsy. “May I speak with you, my lady?”
Ah, an escape from Nurse Wilson’s disapproving presence.
Grace’s shoulders slumped slightly. As the lady of the house, she should certainly develop a more imposing presence to, at the very least, stand up to the woman.
Or perhaps she should just accept that Nurse Wilson found her fundamentally trying and move on with her life. Though that really wasn’t Grace’s way. She desperately wanted to find friendships where she could, even with women like Nurse Wilson.
“I will be right there, Mary.” Grace turned to Nurse Wilson. “Thank you for all you do for our soldiers. I know managing them—and me—cannot be easy.”
The woman’s expression failed to even flicker. “My job is to serve these men.” Nurse Wilson’s tone was neutral, as usual. She was terribly good at neutral. “It is an honor.”
With that, she turned and wove through the rows of cots toward the corporal and his unraveled bandages.
Grace released a long sigh and stepped into the hallway, where Mary, brown eyes wide, dipped another curtsy and began wringing her hands. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, my lady, but John has been searching for you.”
Oh, why would their footman be searching for her?
“Has he?”
She nodded. “He mentioned something about the morning room. He says one of the small paintings is missing from the wall. The landscape, I believe.”
The morning room? One of the few rooms on the main floor not occupied by patients. At the advice of Aunt Lavinia, Grace had kept a few rooms for meeting people and having tea with important members of society who helped fund the ongoing operations of the hospital.
“Oh!” Grace started walking in that direction. “Is it the painting of the pond or the sheep field?”
Mary only raised a brow, clearly uncertain.
Grace supposed Mary rarely attempted to imagine herself inside paintings, so it likely made them harder to remember.
“Thank you for letting me know. I’m sure it’s simply been moved for cleaning or some such.
I’m always misplacing things, you know. Just last week I couldn’t find my favorite fountain pen for three days, and it turned out I’d left it in a book I’d been reading in the conservatory.
” She laughed. “And then there’s my favorite pair of earrings Lord Astley bought for me in Italy that I thought I’d lost. Missing for five months, they were. ”
Five months?
Her entire face heated. Oh yes. She remembered very well what might have happened on that library couch during Frederick’s last visit. Perhaps her other missing jewelry and hair clips were scattered in various other places around the house for similar reasons.
Goodness.
She smiled brightly to cover her sudden flush, and her attention caught on a movement down the hall. Brandon, butler’s livery in perfect press, stepped toward her. His usually impassive expression was almost … smiling.
What?
Her gaze dropped to the silver tray in his hand, upon which some sort of folded paper lay.
Her heart jumped into a faster pace.
She turned to Mary. “Tell John I will see him in the morning room in a few moments.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mary disappeared down the hall, and Grace rushed toward Brandon, barely missing Mr. Somersby—or should she say Mr. Somersby’s cane—as he sat dozing in his usual chair.
“A letter, my lady. From Major Percy.” Brandon’s stern expression softened in the way it only did when Frederick was mentioned. The butler had served the Percy family for decades and held a particular fondness for Frederick … and Grace was fairly certain he had softened to her a bit too.
After her personality had shocked him first.
“Oh, Brandon!” Grace rushed forward and took the envelope. “Thank you so very much.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Grace pressed the letter to her chest for just a moment—proof he was alive, proof he was well enough to write—then carefully tucked it into her apron pocket. Her smile pinched into her cheeks. She’d save it. Read it somewhere quiet, somewhere she could savor every word without interruption.
The library, perhaps. Her sanctuary.
“And I do apologize, my lady, but there is one more matter.” Brandon’s tone shifted slightly, taking on that particular note that suggested something required her attention. “The new maid has arrived.”
“Oh! The maid Mrs. Davies mentioned?” Grace brightened. “How fortuitous! We’re desperately in need of help.”
“Indeed, my lady. Mrs. Davies has reviewed her credentials and found them more than satisfactory. The young woman comes from a London household that closed when the family relocated to the country.”
“Excellent for us, isn’t it, Brandon?” Grace patted the man’s arm, but he remained as stiff as ever, though his expression softened enough for her to know he was pleased. Or at least tolerant. “What’s her name?”
“Helen Gale, my lady.”
Helen Gale. “Would you bring her to the morning room?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Grace started down the hall, one hand pressed to the letter in her pocket as if it somehow connected her to her darling Frederick. John could tell her about the missing painting, and she could meet the new maid all at once. Efficiency at its finest.
Frederick would be proud.
She’d returned to being much more efficient over the past month.
For the first three months of the hospital, right after Frederick had left, Grace had barely gotten much done at all, except reading.
She’d been utterly exhausted all of the time.
Whatever about tending soldiers made her ten times more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life, she had no idea. Even to the point of nausea at times.
The sight of blood had never bothered her, but the smell of morphine, until she’d gotten used to it, had turned her stomach on a daily basis for weeks. She gave her head a little shake at the memory and turned the corner into the morning room.
John stood near the wall where, indeed, a painting was conspicuously absent. A lighter rectangle on the wallpaper marked where it had hung.
“My lady,” John began. “I’ve asked the staff, and no one has a memory of taking it down for cleaning.”
Grace stared at the spot. It had been the sheep one. She’d always rather liked it. “I wonder how valuable it might be, John.” She turned to him, knowing quite well what trouble paintings could cause if they had any monetary worth.
Or led to a treasure.
“I haven’t the foggiest, my lady, but if the late Lord Astley bought it, I imagine it’s worth something.”
She nibbled on the inside of her bottom lip. “If you’ll recall that Sherlock Holmes book I gave you last Christmas, John?”
He blinked and, perhaps, nodded. Slightly.
“Take a few hints from it and do some subtle investigating.” Grace lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“Nothing to draw any suspicion, of course, but just enough to see if we uncover any clues.” She nodded.
“Clues are our best option to determine whether we truly have a thief on our hands or just some absent-minded servant.”
John hesitated, then dipped into a slight bow. “Of course, my lady.”
“I’ll do a bit of investigating too.”
A male cleared his throat nearby, and Grace turned to find Brandon standing just inside the room, a young woman at his side. Grace smiled and stepped toward them.
The woman stood in a simple brown dress, hands folded demurely in front of her and a carpet bag at her feet.
She had striking auburn hair—not the bright copper of Grace’s own, but a deeper, richer shade interwoven with brown tones that caught the afternoon light like polished mahogany.
Her features were arresting in their symmetry, the kind of face that would be difficult to forget once seen, though she seemed to be doing her very best to appear unremarkable.
She kept her head down as Grace approached.
“Miss Gale, my lady.” Brandon gestured toward the woman in introduction.
“Welcome to Havensbrooke, Miss Gale.”
It was then Miss Gale raised her head, the faintest smile touching her lips.
There was a sharpness in the woman’s expression. After a proper curtsy, her gaze swept over the room in a way that reminded Grace distinctly of the way Frederick assessed situations. Or better yet, the way Blake or her friend Jack Miracle visually catalogued details.
But the way she examined Grace and the room was only part of the curiosity about Miss Gale.
The other part?
Her eyes.
Deep blue—so deep they appeared almost violet.
And the direct look she sent Grace caused the back of Grace’s head to tingle in the telltale way it did when a mystery waited nearby.
But why on earth would a new servant lead to such a response?
Apart from the way Miss Gale scanned a room and those interesting eyes, her demeanor and appearance didn’t announce any trouble.
“I’m honored to have the opportunity to serve at Havensbrooke.” The woman’s calm voice held the tiniest hint of an accent. “And you, my lady.”
Grace moved forward, extending her hand in a gesture that made both John’s and Brandon’s eyebrows rise slightly.
But Grace had never been one for excessive formality, especially not in her own home.
“I’m so pleased you’re here, Miss Gale. We truly are in desperate need of help, what with the hospital and all the comings and goings. ”
Miss Gale’s hand was cool in Grace’s, and she showed surprising strength in her grip. She seemed quite capable, as Brandon had said.
But capable of what, exactly?
Grace smiled at her own turn of phrase, but something in the back of her mind paused on the moment. Catalogued it somewhere within the place she housed curiosities she wanted to revisit later.
Grace had read enough novels to recognize when something was off about a person. When the governess was actually a duchess in disguise, or the butler was really a detective, or the lady’s maid was harboring secrets that would unravel by chapter 20.
Miss Helen Gale had secrets. Or at least Grace hoped so.
The question was—what kind?