Chapter 2
Grace pressed Frederick’s letter to her chest and sank onto the edge of her bed, the electric lights brightening the entire room to such an extent Grace turned them off and lit a lantern she kept by her bed.
For some reason, reading Frederick’s letter in a cozy glow of firelight and lantern light made him feel closer.
She wasn’t sure why, but perhaps it reminded her of their first few months together, when her room was without electricity, or when they were traipsing through the wilds of Cairo or adventuring in the Highlands of Scotland.
She wasn’t certain, but it comforted her.
Especially if she wrapped herself within the folds of a large blanket and snuggled in deep, pretending his arms—instead of mere cloth and thread—enclosed her.
They’d reopened the Astlynn Commons Glassworks as soon as they’d gotten back from their last adventure in Scotland, and it had proven a monetary boon after their shocking discovery of her father’s financial decline.
They’d almost finished the renovations to the east wing bedchambers before Frederick had gone off to war, leaving only the nursery unfinished, which meant Lily, the little daughter born to him years before he met Grace, still remained with her nurse on the grounds.
But Grace would be pleased to bring the little darling into the house once all was ready for her, and then Lily could join Zahra as Grace’s own adopted daughter too.
Zahra had been happily tending to the cat she’d named Shams, which evidently meant “sun” in Arabic, but may have proven to fit the cat’s personality with its English meaning as far as the creature’s sneakiness.
Grace could see it in the cat’s eyes.
Or perhaps that was the way the firelight had been glinting off the creature as it lay in Zahra’s arms while Grace had tucked the girl into bed.
But at least Shams had brought a smile to Zahra’s face, and perhaps the animal offered some company for the girl, besides Lily, who was younger in years and much younger in experience than Zahra.
Grace brought the letter to her face and pressed a kiss to it, closing her eyes and trying to imagine Frederick taking the time in some tent or hovel, surrounded by muck or darkness or gunfire—or all three—to pen it to her.
She’d waited all day to read it. Through the chaos with Zeus and the cat, through the introduction to Miss Gale, through dinner and evening rounds with the wounded, she’d saved it like a sweet to be savored in quiet.
She settled back in the chair by the fire, adjusting her gown to fit more comfortably.
Her dresses had become so odd lately. Tighter in the middle and chest. She really ought to stop eating so many of Mrs. Lennox’s cakes, she supposed.
And if she’d just stop making them taste so wonderful, Grace would.
She sighed.
Then broke the letter’s seal with trembling fingers.
My dearest Grace,
Apart from being God’s beloved child, was there anything lovelier than being Frederick Percy’s dearest Grace?
I hope this letter finds you well and Havensbrooke still standing despite the trials and undoubted chaos a convalescent hospital inspires.
To be honest, I’m a little relieved not to witness how my family home has been transformed, but I am proud of the work you and those working with you are doing for the men and women who have served so faithfully in this war.
Your last letter mentioned an egg-and-spoon race among the patients that ended with someone in the rosebushes?
Darling, I can picture it perfectly, and I cannot decide if I’m sorry to have missed it or grateful to have been spared.
Though I am every hour pained to be away from you, Zahra, and Lily.
As I’ve mentioned already, the way you have loved my little daughter Lily and given her the attention of such a mother warms my heart more than I can say.
But I am certain she has enjoyed her lengthy visits to my sister’s.
Grace laughed softly, though tears were already prickling at her eyes.
Yes, little Lily had transformed at the opportunity to enjoy the countryside with Frederick’s sister and play with children of like age.
The absence had also helped keep little Lily away from the noises of the hospital.
She was by far less prepared for them than Zahra.
The work here is tedious more than dangerous at present—mostly bridge inspections and drainage concerns.
(You see how I’m becoming quite dull?) The dampness you worried about in your last letter is indeed considerable, but I assure you I’m taking every precaution.
Please don’t let your imagination run away with you.
What we are experiencing here is different than any of your novels.
More combat is coming soon, so do keep our men in your prayers. As I am certain you’ve heard through the wireless, the rain has made the battles even more dangerous than they already were.
I was glad to learn from your last letter that the glassworks are continuing to expand and bring in some revenue in addition to what is being given to run the hospital.
The funds your mother left you have placed us in good stead, so do not worry too much about money.
Take care more than anything of our girls and yourself. Nothing else is so dear to me than you.
Her breath caught just a moment. She could almost hear him speaking those words against her cheek. Kissing away her tears. Her eyes flickered closed for a moment. The ache for him branched through her like nothing she’d ever known, and if she meditated on it for too long, it nearly consumed her.
I received the package you sent—the socks were desperately needed.
The book of Kipling’s poems was surprisingly appropriate, and I have passed the book around along with my copy of Pilgrim’s Progress that a chaplain distributed to some of us last week.
Both have provided comfort and encouragement.
I must confess the copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel has entertained at least a dozen men.
Know you are bringing smiles even here in these dark places, my darling.
Though I find I miss your excited explanations of plot twists and red herrings nearly as much as I miss you.
Nearly, but not quite.
Her smile wavered wide, and she wiped a tear from her cheek.
She would think of some more books to send in her next package.
Perhaps The Four Feathers by A. E. W. Mason.
Its resounding message that true courage wasn’t the absence of fear but the mastery of it would be highly suitable for the climate of war.
And … she looked to the ceiling … perhaps Treasure Island?
Apropos particularly if someone were taken hostage, wished to learn the art of becoming a pirate, or … was fortunate enough to find a map.
Grace, my darling, I think of you constantly.
Of your laugh, your impossible optimism, your way of finding hope and joy in the smallest things.
I think of Zahra and hope she’s adjusting to my absence better than I’m adjusting to yours.
Tell her that Papa misses her stories and her solemn little face when she’s concentrating on her reading.
And tell yourself—though I know you won’t need the reminder—that I love you more than words can express. That every bridge I inspect, every trench I survey, every difficult and heart-aching night, brings me one day closer to coming home to you.
Give our girls my love.
Yours,
Frederick
Grace leaned her head back against the chair, pressing the letter to her chest. She could hear Frederick’s voice in every word—his deep warmth that left tingles down her neck, his gentle teasing.
Five months.
Five months since she’d seen his face, heard his voice, felt his arms around her.
Five months of managing alone, of putting on a brave face for Zahra, Lily, the staff, and the wounded soldiers, of filling every waking moment so she wouldn’t have time to think about how terribly much she missed him.
But the nights …
The nights were the hardest.
Not even a good book could distract her aching heart sometimes.
And she had never thought that possible!
Grace carefully folded the letter and placed it in her desk drawer, where she kept all Frederick’s correspondence.
Twenty-three letters now. Twenty-three pieces of him scattered across the past months from when he’d first left in October last year.
He’d had only two furloughs in between, the last five months ago.
She changed into her nightgown, reveling in the comfort of less constriction, and climbed into bed—their bed, though it felt impossibly large with only her in it. The pillow beside hers still bore the faint impression where Frederick’s head rested when he was last there.
She reached out and touched it, offering a prayer for his safety.
He would come home. She had to believe that. Even if some of the books she’d read recently suggested otherwise … a fact that had immediately turned her away from war books back to romances and mysteries. There was no need for such realism in her fiction when real life posed its own gravity.
She tugged Frederick’s pillow close, burying her face into it to chase the faintest scent of him, and then nestled into the blankets, exhaustion pulling her toward sleep.
“My lady?”
Grace pulled her heavy eyelids open, blinking in the room, dim with firelight.
A round of knocks came from the door. “My lady?”
Was that Ellie? Grace sat up, pushing back her wild hair as she did.
Oh dear. Nothing good ever came from being woken in the middle of the night. Unless, of course, it was by Frederick.
Or if it was from a wonderful epiphany related to her guessing the ending of a book or solving a possible crime. Those had been excellent reasons for night-waking too.
Ellie slipped into the room still in uniform, her pale eyes wide. “I’m terribly sorry to wake you, but—”