Chapter 8
Grace had been attempting to read Advice to a Wife on the Management of Her Own Health for the third time, but her mind refused to linger on anything apart from the insistence that daily exercise is beneficial.
She supposed walking counted. Pursuing quiet hobbies—such as reading—suited her very well too.
But the author’s advice to maintain cheerful company and conversation was proving considerably more difficult since she had discovered Mr. Blake to be a spy.
He was still cheerful, but he was also untruthful … and possibly dangerous.
Her chest ached at the thought.
She loved Blake. He was a dear friend to her, and his relationship with Frederick was one of the sweetest examples of male companionship she had ever known—Frederick’s friendship with his former valet, Elliott, coming in at a very respectable second.
Surely Blake wasn’t a villain!
His treachery would wound her as deeply as her father’s or sister’s had when they failed to tell her the truth about their family’s finances. Perhaps even worse. At least Papa and Lillias had given clues to their deception.
Blake, on the other hand?
She’d searched her mind thoroughly.
Not one hint. Not one suspicious twitch of an eyebrow.
Blake had never given the slightest indication of anything but true care, steadfast loyalty to Frederick, and genuine affection for her.
And this terrible struggle between trusting him and not trusting him had gone on for two entire days, during which Grace had attempted to avoid him as much as possible until she could shore up the courage for a serious confrontation.
Unfortunately, nothing had arisen to distract her from the current dilemma.
Not even a missing pen.
Or a faint wisp of a ghost.
Or a suspicious footprint outside the morning room window.
Thus, she’d spent far too much time rehearsing:
Blake, I know you’re not wounded.
Too direct.
Dear Blake, might we discuss your rather inconsistent limp?
Too flippant.
Stephen Blake, you are going to tell me what you’re really doing at Havensbrooke this instant, or so help me—
That one felt the most satisfying.
If only she could summon the courage.
Grace pressed her palms against the writing desk and attempted to steady her breathing.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered. “Blake would never hurt you. He loves Frederick. He’d never—”
But what if he would?
The thought froze her.
What if everything she believed about Blake was wrong? What if his charm was merely a mask, his affection for Frederick an elaborate deception? She’d read enough mystery novels to know that sometimes the most trusted characters turned out to be the most notorious.
Mr. Smallwood in Egypt had read Dickens for heaven’s sake and appeared the very model of a pleasant gentleman before he went off shooting people and blowing up ancient tombs to conceal his antiquity heist!
She breathed out a sigh.
Though Grace had also read enough to know that sometimes the detective’s paranoia led them astray.
And in truth, she had been that very detective more than once.
And Blake was no Mr. Smallwood.
A knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts, and she turned as Brandon stepped inside, the maid Jane hovering pale and shadowed behind him.
“My lady.” He dipped his chin. “Jane has requested an audience with you.” Though his expression remained properly impassive, she noticed the faint tightening around his eyes—a telltale sign of concern. “Would you like me to remain for the interview, madam?”
Grace stood and glanced past him to Jane, who looked as if she had been crying. Again.
“Yes, Brandon. Do stay. And if Jane feels uncomfortable with your presence”—she gestured toward the trembling girl—”then we shall take our privacy.”
“Indeed, my lady. She requested I remain present.” Brandon’s tone deepened. “As a witness.”
A witness?
Good heavens.
“I believe she has something of importance to confess,” he added.
“I see.” A sluice of cold dread washed over Grace’s earlier agitation. “Yes, then, Brandon. Please stay.”
Jane entered fully, and Grace’s heart twisted at the sight of her blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes. The girl clutched something wrapped in cloth to her chest, her hands quivering.
“Jane, what on earth has happened? Is it your father?” Grace stepped forward, but Jane lifted a shaking hand.
“Please, my lady. Don’t—don’t be kind to me. I can’t bear it.” Her voice cracked. “Not after what I’ve done.”
Grace exchanged a glance with Brandon, who stood sentinel at the door.
“Why don’t you sit and tell me what’s troubling you,” Grace said softly, lowering herself into her chair and gesturing toward the opposite seat.
Jane shook her head violently. “I don’t deserve to sit in your presence, my lady. I’m … I’m a thief.” The word broke on a sob. “A common thief. You’ve been nothing but good to me, and I’ve stolen from you.”
Everything in Grace’s mind halted.
Jane?
Jane was the thief?
This revelation did not fit any of Grace’s very elaborate, well-constructed theories.
“What are you talking about?”
“The candlesticks. The silver ones from the drawing room.” Jane’s words tumbled out in a rush now, as if she’d been holding them back for so long they were bursting to get out.
“And the painting from the morning room—the small one of the sheep in the meadow. I took them. I was going to sell them to pay for Papa’s treatment. ”
She unwrapped the cloth with shaking hands, revealing the two silver candlesticks.
“I only sold the painting,” Jane continued, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But I couldn’t … After you gave me that money, after you were so kind, I couldn’t sell these too.
I tried to take them to the pawn shop in Matlock, but every time I looked at them, I saw your face.
The way you smiled at me. The way you didn’t even hesitate to help. ”
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, my lady. I’m so very sorry. I know sorry ain’t enough. I know what I’ve done is unforgivable. But I couldn’t keep carrying this guilt. It’s been eating me alive. Every time I see you, your … your kindness, I feel worse.”
Grace sat very still, processing. This was rather disappointing in several ways.
First, because it did not remotely resemble the dangerous criminal mastermind scheme she’d been certain lay behind everything.
Second, because it never felt particularly pleasant to be deceived.
And third—oh, poor Jane. To feel so desperate she would jeopardize both her reputation and her position.
Over silver candlesticks, no less. Not even the really interesting pieces.
“Why didn’t you simply ask me for help?” Grace asked softly. “If you needed money for your father, why didn’t you come to me?”
Jane let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Because people like me don’t ask people like you for help, my lady. We’re not supposed to burden our betters with our problems. We’re supposed to be grateful for our wages and not ask for more.”
“That’s not—” Grace started, then stopped. Because wasn’t it true? Wasn’t that exactly how society worked in this world? Servants were supposed to be invisible, their problems their own. But that had never been Grace’s way. “Jane, you must know by now that isn’t how I do things.”
“I know that now.” Jane’s voice cracked, and she sent a look over at Brandon. “But by the time I realized it, I’d already taken the painting and the candlesticks.”
She sank to her knees, still clutching the candlesticks.
“Please, my lady. I know I have to face the consequences. I know you’ll have to turn me over to the authorities. I just … I needed you to know how sorry I am. How grateful I am for your kindness.”
Grace looked helplessly toward Brandon, who merely inclined his head—a quiet acknowledgement that she, not he, must decide.
She blinked, drew in a breath, and slowly lifted the candlesticks from Jane’s trembling hands.
Then it struck her. She was the authority.
She had to make the choice.
In novels, this was the moment the heroine dispensed mercy or justice with admirable decisiveness. Then one simply turned the page to observe the outcome.
But this was not a novel. This was real life, with real people and consequences, and very little in the way of convenient chapter endings.
Jane had stolen from her. Had betrayed her trust. Had lied to her face while Grace had been worrying about her father.
But she had also been desperate, frantic with worry for her father. Had confessed at the cost of her security. Had been gnawed apart by guilt.
Grace placed a hand over her stomach. The tiny life within stirred faintly beneath her palm. What would she do for someone she loved? What had she already done?
Risked her future, for certain.
And her life a few times.
“Stand up, Jane,” Grace said quietly.
Jane rose on shaking legs, her face pale.
“What you did was wrong, and by your confession, I know you are aware of its seriousness. You betrayed my trust. You stole from this house, from this family.” Grace released a long sigh. “And there must be consequences for that.”
“I know, my lady. I understand—”
“But,” Grace interrupted, “I also understand why you did it. And I understand that you’re genuinely sorry. That counts for something.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “My lady?”
“I’m not going to turn you over to the authorities,” Grace said.
Brandon’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he said nothing.
“However …” She drew in a breath, her voice pinching tight from the force it took to speak the next words.
“I can’t have a thief in my household. It wouldn’t be fair to the other servants, and it wouldn’t be safe for anyone here. ”
Jane’s face crumpled. “I understand, my lady.”
“You’ll have to leave Havensbrooke,” Grace continued, her heart aching at the words. “I’ll give you a character reference—not a glowing one, but an honest one that explains you were let go due to financial difficulties, not dishonesty. That should help you find another position eventually.”