Chapter 3
Frederick’s office had been fully set back to rights within a few days, and Brandon had even commissioned Mr. Brody from the glassworks to repair the bookcase.
As far as Grace could tell, no other mischief had taken place over those days, except for an argument between Privates Jones and Carter that nearly ended in blows.
Well, since both men were hobbling about on crutches, Grace wasn’t too certain how sincere the blows might have been, considering the question of whether the men could have even reached each other.
And a few of the men had woken with nightmares.
But that was nothing new. It was a terrible by-product of what they’d witnessed on the Western Front.
Grace had spent part of the morning assisting two of their newest arrivals with handwriting lessons, helping them relearn how to write after having their hands disfigured in combat.
It was sad and strenuous for the poor men, as it only mirrored some of the unseen struggles.
The pain in their eyes gave glimpses of things they’d witnessed—things not even she could imagine.
Would Frederick return with such visions in his head?
Would he wake with nightmares? Succumb to despair?
She swallowed through the lump in her throat. Or suffer some sort of injury that caused him to forget about her entirely?
Her breath caught, nose tingling with the warning of tears.
Until she closed her eyes and gave her head a solid shake.
Don’t be ridiculous, Grace. Not only was it improbable, but she was acting as if she didn’t trust God’s love at all! Even when hard things happened, didn’t He always promise to be the strength she needed for whatever the task?
She released a sigh.
As He’d proven to her in the long months without Frederick near.
And—she nodded to herself—it was incredibly unlikely Frederick would lose his memory of her. None of the patients had completely lost their memories. Fragments, sometimes, but not entirely. Even when shell-shocked.
To distract her thoughts from such a melancholy direction, she turned her mind to the mystery at hand.
Despite Frederick’s office being put back to rights, the truth remained: Someone was either a thief or assisting a thief from inside the house.
And even though Grace had concocted many scenarios over the past few days—involving suspicious eye gazes and conspicuous conversations among patients who were likely the culprits—the hours passed without anything truly pointing to a suspect or even a worthwhile clue.
It had just passed teatime when Brandon found her offering Lieutenant Marks his choice of adventure books, with her strongly encouraging him to read King Solomon’s Mines. Particularly since the hero might encourage a touch of humility in the dear lieutenant.
“But what really ought to convince you”—Grace leaned in with a wiggle of her brows for effect—”is that the story features a map drawn in blood. Surely that might tempt even the most respectable patient to a bit of adventure?”
Lieutenant Marks’ eyes lit with interest just as Brandon’s voice came from the doorway.
“Lady Astley?”
She offered the lieutenant a smile, left the book in his hands, and made her way to the butler’s side.
Brandon’s usually impassive expression showed signs of strain. No wonder—with a possible thief, a convalescent hospital, a manor house to run, and a world at war, it seemed everyone had moments of particular difficulty on occasion. Even Mr. Brandon.
“Dear Brandon, we are keeping you quite busy around here, aren’t we?”
Something in his face relaxed for the briefest moment, and he nodded. “It is my duty, my lady.”
“Which you do so admirably well.” She smiled up at him.
“I know having you manage things here puts Lord Astley’s mind at ease when he is far away.
Especially since Elliott has not only gone off and gotten married but joined the war effort too.
” She offered him a wink. “It’s terribly difficult to keep dependable help these days when adventure and romance tend to upset the balance so frequently. ”
The man shook his head slowly … almost smiling. “I am quite fond of balance, my lady.”
Her eyes widened. Had Brandon attempted to joke? And then she laughed, nearly abandoning all decorum to hug the man.
“If you attempt to tease too often, Brandon”—Grace tried for a very serious expression and likely failed miserably—”you will certainly set me off-balance.”
“Speaking of an imbalance, my lady?” His eyes twinkled for the faintest moment and then he straightened, taking back the mantle of proper British butler. Possibly the very thought of setting her off-balance terrified him back into sense again. “A medical transport has arrived. Unexpectedly.”
“Oh?” Grace gathered her skirts and started walking toward the entrance hall. “We weren’t scheduled to receive anyone until next week.”
“Precisely, my lady. However, the driver says there was an overflow from one of the other homes, and he was given notice to inquire about our availability.”
“For how many?”
“Seven more, from what I understand.” He stayed by her side as they moved along the corridors past men in various states of rest, recuperation, or exercise.
Seven. Grace’s mind immediately started calculating sleeping arrangements, supplies, meals. Where could they possibly accommodate seven more men on the main floor? The billiard room? She nodded to herself.
She may not wish to share a room with the mounted heads of hunted animals staring down from the walls, but surely most of the soldiers wouldn’t mind such company. And it was large enough to add a few more patients, if need be.
“Very well,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “If you’ll see to preparing the billiard room, then I’ll greet our new arrivals.”
“Of course, my lady.”
The grand outdoor entryway was already filling with the familiar organized chaos of preparing for the new patients.
Orderlies helping men down from the transport wagon, Nurse Wilson appearing with her usual efficient calm to assess injuries, Mrs. Powell coordinating with footmen about accommodations.
Grace moved among them, offering words of welcome, directing servants, making mental notes of who would need what level of care.
And then she saw him.
The last man climbing down from the wagon, cane in one hand. A man she’d know anywhere, though she’d never seen him in such disarray. And she had to admit, from what she knew of him, he certainly didn’t care for it.
Pale blond hair disheveled. Jaw shadowed with stubble. Clothes much less pressed than his usual immaculate standard.
A laugh of astonished delight burst from her, and she rushed forward.
“Stephen Blake?” The words erupted from her before she could think to contain them.
The man looked up as his feet met the ground, and his familiar crooked grin emerged despite his obvious discomfort. “My dear Lady Astley.”
Just the sound of his voice sent a swell of comfort through her.
“How on earth did you get yourself wounded?” She moved to his side without ceremony, taking his arm to help him up the steps.
He leaned on her, though—ever the gentleman—not as much as she thought he might.
His expression dropped into a grimace despite the residual twinkle in his eyes.
“I could tell you it was a daring heroic action involving explosives and German artillery, where I saved one man’s life at great cost to myself.
But truthfully?” His grin became almost sheepish.
“I tripped over a supply crate in the dark and tumbled down an embankment. Terribly undignified. Please don’t tell Freddie—I’ll never hear the end of it. ”
Grace released another shocked laugh, though this one was softer.
Oh, what a solace to have someone so dear to her darling Frederick here at Havensbrooke.
However irreverent and mischievous Blake might be, he was also terribly clever at sleuthing and knew how to wield a pistol.
His presence might prove incredibly helpful.
Especially where mysteries were involved.
“I am so very happy to see you, though I wish it weren’t under such circumstances.”
He winced upon making the step into the house. “As I understand it, this is the place to be if one must be wounded. Book discussions, egg-and-spoon races, dramatic poetry readings …”
“How do you already know about those?” Grace demanded.
“I happened upon your dear Lord Astley two months ago, and he was expounding upon all your adventures.” His eyes—so like Frederick’s in their intelligence but far more mischievous—sparkled despite his obvious pain.
“I couldn’t resist requesting assignment here.
Someone needs to document your exploits for posterity.
” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “And I must say, your husband is exceedingly proud of you.”
A warmth rushed from Grace’s stomach straight to her eyes, bringing with it the prickle of tears. Yes, having Blake here was the closest thing to having Frederick home.
“Let’s go to the morning room to talk properly. I want to hear everything about Frederick.”
“Everything?” He chuckled. “I’m afraid I shall prove sorely disappointing on that account. Military men aren’t terribly effusive, you know.”
They moved into the entrance hall, Grace continuing to guide Blake as if he hadn’t been in Havensbrooke more times than herself, when something caught her gaze.
Standing near the servants’ entrance, where Mrs. Powell was assisting Nurse Wilson in directing orderlies, stood Miss Helen Gale.
Which wasn’t necessarily surprising in itself, but it was the look on her face that arrested Grace’s attention.
Miss Gale stood completely still, frozen like a figure in a painting. Her face had drained of all color, lips parted slightly as if she’d forgotten to breathe.
And her attention was fixed entirely on Blake.
Grace’s gaze flew to Blake, who had also drawn to a halt. His expression was an almost exact mirror of Miss Gale’s—shock, recognition, something that looked remarkably like pain.