Saving Grace (16 page)

The Sutherland fortune can well afford it,
he could have said.
Especially now.
Not only had the laundry dwindled to almost nothing, but general expenditures the last eighteen months had as well. He’d spent precious little maintaining the estate. Since Elizabeth’s passing, not a single dinner party or ball had been hosted here. Today he could afford to be generous with his tenants.

In the end, the matter was settled somewhat satisfactorily — or so he told himself — and the women left. But before the door had closed behind them, it swung open once more, the heavy oak flying backward toward the wall, saved from collision by Kingsley’s quick arm.

Beside him, a disheveled-looking man burst into the room, hat askew, eyes blazing.

“What is the meaning of this?” Nicholas asked, rising from his chair. He could guess well enough and was not surprised at his butler’s apologetic introduction.

Mr. Thatcher had arrived.

“Mr. Thatcher insists he has come from London and cannot” — Kingsley cast a disdainful glance at their unwelcome guest — “‘fritter away the day waiting to see his
lord — ship.
’”
Kingsley spoke the last with a drawl exuding disdain.

“Well, now.” Mr. Thatcher righted his hat and tugged an obviously too-small and somewhat worn waistcoat over his stomach. “I don’t suppose I said it like that.”

“I rather suppose you did,” Nicholas said.

Even had Kingsley not been the epitome of honesty and truthfulness to the point of — at times — annoyance, Nicholas would have been certain of Mr. Thatcher’s tone and the meaning behind it. It was as he’d suspected earlier; Thatcher was not here to express gratitude for the care of his daughter. Indeed, his face was red with anger, his bulbous nose a glowing beacon of the fury boiling beneath the surface.

“That’s no way to treat a caller, that’s what,” Mr. Thatcher said. “Make a man wait all day to see his daughter.”

“Oh?” Nicholas arched a brow. “If only you’d said so in the first place.” He looked from Mr. Thatcher’s uncomfortable expression to Kingsley, still standing near the doorway and poised for action. “Please ring for Mrs. James and ask her to escort Mr. Thatcher to his daughter’s room.” Nicholas noted the time on the clock. “I believe the physician will be here within the hour. He can explain your daughter’s condition in detail. I regret to inform you that it is very serious.”

“Perhaps I was hasty.” Mr. Thatcher made a point of clearing his throat, as if he imagined something were caught there, though clearly there was not. “My own health has been poor of late. It mightn’t be a good idea to get near Grace, lest I fall ill as well.”

“She hasn’t got the pox,” Nicholas said. Miss Thatcher’s fair face came to mind, and he pondered what a tragedy the pox would have been. “She’s suffering from pneumonia, a result, so the physician says, of being a long time out in the damp night air.” Nicholas waited for Miss Thatcher’s father to take his leave to go upstairs, his distaste for the man growing each second. He again turned his attention to his ever-patient butler. “How many tenants are still waiting to see me?”

“Enough to warrant your attention until this evening.” Kingsley said without taking time to consider or consult the crowd outside.

Nicholas walked around the desk toward Mr. Thatcher who was — albeit rather subtly — taking stock of the room.

And a fine room it is
,
Nicholas mused with both a touch of pride and an inkling of discomfort. This was one of the few areas of his home that he’d properly cared for since his father’s death — mostly because it had belonged to his father. From the large mahogany desk with walnut inlays, to the wall of coordinating shelves and the impressive volumes they held, to the marble-top side table and the set of gilt wood chairs before the fire, everything about the room bespoke opulence.

Unlike his guest, whose shoddy clothing and filthy boots indicated that his circumstances were somewhat less fortunate. Not a crime, but Thatcher’s eyes had a greedy sparkle about them and were taking in every detail in a very suspect manner.

“That’s a fine painting you’ve got there,” he said, eyeing the large canvas of a countryside landscape hanging above the fireplace. “Pretty piece of land, that.”

“Yes,” Nicholas replied, without sharing that the land portrayed in the painting was the northernmost tip of the Sutherland property. “I realize you’ve been waiting the better part of the morning, but I’m afraid it could not be helped. Your arrival today is unfortunate in its timing; it coincides with the day set aside for my tenants to visit. I’ve been away a long time, and some of them have waited several months to speak with me.”

Mr. Thatcher’s lip curled in a sneer, and he gave a forced laugh. “Oh to be so important that the masses flock to see you.”

“I assure you, there is no glory in discussing leaky roofs, aged animals, and an extreme lack of — laundry.” Nicholas spoke calmly, though inside he was beginning to feel as irritated as his guest appeared. He extended his hand toward the door, nodding curtly. “Kingsley will show you out.”

“Not until we’re through, he won’t,” Mr. Thatcher huffed.

“We are
finished,” Nicholas said. “If you wish to see your daughter, Mrs. James will take you up.” He turned away from his unwelcome caller.

“You know who I am here to see — and you know why.” Thatcher’s tone had changed from hasty anger to one carrying a more subtle, understated threat.

Ignoring it, Nicholas thought of his father’s patience and tried to find some of his own. “I have been
away
,” he explained once more. “And there are many matters I must attend to.”

“There is only
one
matter I am concerned with,” Mr. Thatcher said. “If you wish me to discuss it in front of your servants and tenants, I will happily oblige.”

It isn’t anything they’ve not heard already.
But feeding gossip fires would only make the matter worse. Nicholas wondered warily what it would take to appease Mr. Thatcher. Clearly, seeing his daughter to reassure himself that she was well
wasn’t
his priority.

“You have five minutes,” Nicholas said. “I suggest you speak quickly.” He looked at Kingsley. “You may go now. Please tell cook that I wish refreshment provided for those still waiting. Whatever she has on hand will be fine. Send her my apologies and the promise of a half day off for her trouble.” No use getting on the cook’s bad side for all this. Good, familiar food was about the only pleasure still afforded him at Sutherland Hall, and he intended to keep it.

As soon as Kingsley had gone, Nicholas swept his arm toward the leather chairs before the fire. “Shall we sit?” He’d have liked to have requested his noon meal, but he’d looked forward to a few moments of reflection all morning, and he doubted he’d have them dining with Mr. Thatcher.

“Thank you,” the latter said gruffly, taking the closest seat.

Nicholas went to the sideboard, poured Mr. Thatcher a generous drink, and handed it to him. “What can I do for you?” Nicholas asked in the most patient tone he could muster, as he sat in the opposite chair.

“It’s not me you’d best be doing for,” Thatcher said, as agitated as ever, and downing his brandy at an alarming rate. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ve ruined my daughter, and you’d best be prepared to pay for it.”

Ah ...
Perhaps this was a matter that could be solved quickly with money. But he needn’t make it too easy.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” Nicholas protested. “Indeed her life is in danger, but that is not my doing.” He considered Mr. Thatcher for a few seconds, then leaned forward in his chair. “Wouldn’t you like to see her?” He asked in earnest, not from a desire to be rid of his guest.

He allowed himself to think of Miss Thatcher — Grace — not unlike Elizabeth, who’d been only a few years beyond girlhood. He recalled the way his father had described sitting at Elizabeth’s side as she drew her last breaths, how he’d been there to hold her hand.

As was Preston.
The unbidden bitter thought forced its way to the front of his mind.

“I told you, I’ve not been well myself,” Mr. Thatcher said, lifting his glass to his lips only to find it empty.

Nicholas did not offer to refill it. “Your daughter is
gravely
ill,” he said. “I’ve brought in the best physician, and she has constant care, but I fear it may not be enough.”

“On your head, then!” Mr. Thatcher suddenly roared. He jumped from his chair, his demeanor threatening as he stared down at his host.

Nicholas maintained his casual posture. “It was
your
poorly maintained carriage that caused the accident and sent her spending hours outdoors in the chill of night.”

“And it was
you
” — Mr. Thatcher pointed a pudgy finger at him — “who climbed in her bed and shocked her so that she cannot recover.”

“I did no such thing.” This time Nicholas rose and enjoyed the height that allowed him to look down on Thatcher. “You ought not believe everything you hear.”

“I’ve proof.” Thatcher wagged a finger at him again.

Nicholas quirked an eyebrow. “Have you? Were you here that night as well? To see her suffering from a fever so great that my servant believed her life to be in immediate danger?”

“You were in her
bed,
” Thatcher repeated. “You practically tore her nightgown off.”

Nicholas suppressed a groan.
That again.
“Actually, she was in
my
bed. Perhaps I ought to take you to task for raising a daughter who is like to scare a tired man half to death.”

Weary of both Mr. Thatcher and their conversation, he returned to his desk. He closed both the ledger and record book and put each in their respective drawers. Whether or not money would resolve the current situation, he felt no inclination to use it on one as unpleasant and accusatory as Mr. Thatcher.

“I have a letter here.” Thatcher took a folded paper from his coat pocket and followed Nicholas across the room. “From a Mr. Samuel Preston, detailing the evening you were with Grace at his house. According to him, you escorted her in, danced with her, then removed her against Mr. Preston’s will from his residence.”

“That is one viewpoint of the events that night,” Nicholas said.

“Do you deny it?” Thatcher wiped his arm across his brow, though the room was not overly warm. “After all, Grace is here. That seems proof enough.”

“I am certain that, for you, it is,” Nicholas said. That her father was so intimately acquainted with his former brother-in-law, so as to believe his every word, only soured Nicholas more. “However, I see things differently.

“Your daughter’s reputation was in question,” he continued. “In the space of a day and a half, her servants spread the story of our mishap so thoroughly as to completely ruin her. I stepped in to stop that. I showed up at Preston’s ball so she would not have to face the gossips alone, and I did my best to both nullify the rumors and cast doubt on those speaking them. Though the unfortunate incident was neither my fault nor my doing, I felt inclined to come to her rescue.”

Would that I’d not been so inclined
. Nicholas looked pointedly at Mr. Thatcher, whose mouth was busy moving about, as if searching for the right words. “When your daughter fainted at the ball, I deemed it my responsibility to see that she was cared for, so I removed her from Mr. Preston’s home. It has been my unfortunate experience that the ill do not fare well under his care.”

“Her health was none of your concern.”

“As it seems to be none of yours.” Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. He was starting to understand why Miss Thatcher had been so earnest in seeking a husband. If the alternative was to live with her father, it was amazing she’d endured this long.

Instead of looking abashed as he ought at the accusation of not caring a fig for his daughter’s welfare, Mr. Thatcher brought his fist down on the desk. The color in his face brightened to a beet red. “Preston was to
marry
her.”

“
If
that is the case, he did not tell me so and did not act in a manner befitting one betrothed.”

Had Preston been planning to marry again? The scoundrel.
Nicholas pushed aside the memory of the admiring look in Preston’s eyes when he’d danced with Miss Thatcher and instead focused on Preston’s lack of resistance at having the young lady removed from his home.

Her father acted as if he’d not heard a word Nicholas had said. “And now, because of you, my Grace’s prospects are ruined.”

“If Preston will not have her, I suggest she travel elsewhere, where her reputation will not precede her. She might go abroad, perhaps to Scotland,” Nicholas added, remembering his own musings in the carriage while traveling home with her. He was still somewhat willing to assist in financing such a move, but he did not say so to George Thatcher. In only a few minutes, the man had proven himself so entirely disagreeable that any generosity Nicholas would have felt inclined to give had rapidly disappeared.

“Beyond providing her with a physician, there is nothing I can do to right whatever wrongs you
incorrectly
believe I have done to your daughter,” Nicholas said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must insist on getting back to my work. As you may have noticed when you arrived, several others wait to conference with me.”