Chapter 4
The doctor?
Grace placed her palm over her stomach where a low quiver responded.
She’d been feeling such flutterings for a few weeks now but had associated them more with nerves about Frederick or her stomach’s revulsion to so many of the things she’d previously loved to eat—rather than something … serious.
But now?
It didn’t help to consult medical books at all. Their information only made her stomach hurt worse in a very different way.
Stomach ulcers? Intestinal parasites?
She cringed from the shoulders down. Surely she wasn’t experiencing anything like that!
No, there was nothing to be done but wait for a visit from Dr. Ross, who had agreed to leave his own work at a convalescent hospital in the nearby town of Ednesbury and call on her tomorrow morning.
The fleeting notion came to her that she might be with child.
But … since she hadn’t seen Frederick in nearly five months’ time, it seemed unlikely she was pregnant, didn’t it? Wouldn’t she simply know she was carrying a baby? And well before now?
It seemed a mother ought to know something like that by instinct alone.
She gave her head a shake and narrowed her eyes as she stared out the window of the drawing room.
There was no use worrying about something she couldn’t control until Dr. Ross clearly gave her reason to, so …
She drew in a deep breath. She needed a solid diversion, and since Blake hadn’t yet come downstairs for her to give him a tour of the hospital, perhaps she could distract herself with the patients.
After all, she hadn’t planned any activities for the week so far, and she had a great many ideas. Most of them having to do with books.
Or theatrics.
Or perhaps even trying her hand at making a Pepper’s ghost! That should be very distracting.
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but you’ve got that look again.”
Grace turned to find Private Thomas Beckett propped against his pillows, one leg bandaged and elevated, watching her with those knowing brown eyes. The young man from Yorkshire had lost part of his left foot to shrapnel but hadn’t lost his ability to read people.
Or at least to read her.
“What look would that be, Mr. Beckett?” Grace moved closer.
“The one what says you’re about to do something daft to cheer yourself up or at least to attempt to cheer up this lot.
” His grin was lopsided as he gestured with his chin toward the room of patients.
“Last time you had it, you organized that lawn tennis tournament between the walking wounded. Nurse Wilson nearly had apoplexy when Corporal Davies tumbled into the rosebushes.”
Grace bit back a smile. “The corporal said it was the most fun he’d had since leaving the Front. And the roses survived.”
“Mostly.” Beckett’s eyes twinkled. “So what is it this time? Charades? Riddles? Please tell me it’s not another poetry reading. Listening to Lieutenant Ashford murder Wordsworth once was quite enough.”
“I thought he showed remarkable enthusiasm.”
“He showed remarkable volume, my lady. There’s a difference.”
Grace’s grin flashed wide. “Oh dear, I do believe you’re right.
” She nodded thoughtfully. “But wouldn’t he be valiant when reading an adventure?
” She turned her gaze to the ceiling. “Hmm … Journey to the Center of the Earth?” She raised a brow and looked back to Beckett.
“Dracula?” She shook her head. “No, that requires a stealthier approach to reading.” She narrowed her eyes. “What about The Prisoner of Zenda?”
Beckett’s eyes rounded. “I ain’t never heard of any of ‘em, but just not poetry for the man. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
She laughed, the sound lightening something in her chest. “Very well, no poetry readings when Lieutenant Ashford is about. Though I was considering organizing a detective story discussion group. I’ve just finished the most marvelous mystery about a poisoning at a country house party, and I thought—”
“Some assistance, please?”
Grace turned to find Nurse Wilson attempting to keep Lieutenant Hartley upright, but the man was so tall and broad—towering over most of the others in the room—that even the formidable nurse was beginning to buckle beneath his weight.
Grace rushed forward, taking the lieutenant’s other side to help Nurse Wilson guide him to the nearest chair.
“I … I’m so terribly sorry,” he said in a low voice, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I became dizzy all of a sudden.”
“It’s quite common with head wounds, Lieutenant.” Nurse Wilson’s voice was tense from the exertion as they slowly lowered him into the chair. “Nothing to apologize for.”
The poor man had suffered mild shell shock from the explosion that had taken his right arm at Ypres. He was such a gentle giant, so kind and grateful, even if tending toward the melancholy most days.
“I thought some time in the drawing room might lift his spirits,” Nurse Wilson explained, her breathing slightly labored.
“But I hadn’t anticipated the sudden dizziness.
” She smiled warmly at the lieutenant, who managed a wan nod.
“Now, let us see if some of this sunshine and pleasant company won’t do you some good, sir. ”
“I think it will.” His smile crooked ever so slightly—the first Grace had noticed since his arrival. Oh, she hoped that meant he was beginning to heal.
“Thank you, Lady Astley.” Nurse Wilson nodded toward her with something that might have been approval.
“Of course.” Grace stepped back as Nurse Wilson drew up a chair beside the man, notepad at the ready.
“You mentioned you have family in Yorkshire, didn’t you, Lieutenant?” the nurse asked gently.
“Aye, ma’am. Little village called Thornton.”
“How lovely. And your father—he was a schoolmaster there, I believe you said?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hartley blinked, seemingly confused about when he might have mentioned this. “Taught mathematics for thirty years.”
“Mathematics! How wonderful. You must have learned quite a lot from him.” Nurse Wilson settled more comfortably into her chair, pen poised above her notepad, the most engaged Grace had seen the woman.
“I do hope you don’t mind, but it is quite common for many of the nurses to help our patients compose letters to send home to their loved ones.
I thought I’d begin with you today, if you’re feeling up to it.
I’m sure your family would love to hear from you. ”
“That’s very kind, Nurse Wilson,” Hartley said, though he still looked somewhat puzzled by the attention.
Poor man. Confusion was a common part of head injury too.
“I’m sure my dear mother would be pleased with any news.”
Grace watched the exchange with a growing smile. She’d taken dictation for so many of the men herself. Some for the same reason as the lieutenant—injuries that made writing difficult—others because they simply needed a bit of encouragement and company to get the words onto the page.
“Now, Lieutenant, why don’t you tell me about your regiment? I’m sure your father would love to hear about your service …”
Grace turned away from the tender scene to find Blake standing in the doorway, Brandon at his side. Her smile flashed wide until she noted the expressions on both their faces.
Blake looked resigned. Brandon looked disgruntled.
She moved to meet them, Blake taking her arm and gently drawing her a distance from listening ears.
“I’m afraid your little mystery has resurfaced, my lady.” One of Blake’s golden brows rose. “And with rather concerning developments.”
“What do you mean?”
Blake turned to Brandon, who stepped forward with his usual composure barely concealing his displeasure.
“I’m sorry to report, my lady, but two of the silver candlesticks are missing from the drawing room mantel.”
“The candlesticks?” Grace drew in a sharp breath. “Brandon, those are …”
“Valuable, my lady. Yes.” Brandon’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “They could easily be pawned for a considerable sum.”
First a painting of modest value. Then something taken from Frederick’s study—though what, they still didn’t know. And now silver candlesticks that were unmistakably worth real money. How on earth did they all fit together?
“Then our thief is growing bolder,” she said quietly. “Or more desperate.”
“Precisely what I was thinking.” Blake’s voice was low, meant only for her ears. “The pattern is escalating. First items of modest value, and now something that could be quickly converted to funds.”
“But it doesn’t fit,” Grace protested, her detective instincts warring with the facts. “Why take a painting and something from Frederick’s study if the true aim was money? Why not simply steal the silver from the start or the ready cash in Frederick’s desk drawer? It’s clear the thief had access.”
“An excellent question.” Blake’s eyes gleamed with approval, a look Grace had missed seeing from her dear Frederick during such situations. “Which is precisely why I think we need to determine what was taken from Frederick’s study. It might help us understand if there is a pattern or not.”
“Good thought.” She linked her arm through Blake’s, and they walked down the corridor to Frederick’s sanctuary. The room had been tidied, but the broken bookcase still bore evidence of the intrusion—a violation of Frederick’s private space.
Blake moved around the room with that interesting alertness she’d noticed before, his eyes taking in every detail.
There was something about his stealth and focus.
The way his body weaved around the space soundlessly, each step controlled.
Of course, he was a gentleman, which meant he had been raised in a world of poise, but her darling Frederick never moved with such …
well, she wasn’t sure what to call it. It was like watching the panthers she’d seen once when visiting a zoo with her grandfather.
What was Stephen Blake really about?
He paused in front of the damaged bookcase, standing there for a long moment, perfectly still, studying the empty space where something had once rested.