Saving Grace (4 page)

It took several poundings on the enormous wood and iron doors before someone finally came to open them.

“Excuse me,” Harrison said, stepping forward. Grace stood behind him, largely supported by Miranda. He doffed his soaked hat. “Mr. Harrison here, and I’ve got Miss Grace Thatcher, granddaughter of the Duke of Salisbury, in a terrible state. We’ve had a carriage accident.”

Grace tried to straighten and address the man in the open doorway who held a candelabra, but she hadn’t the strength even to confirm Harrison’s story.

After studying the trio a moment, the man said, “Come in. Be quick about it. No need to wake the entire household. She’s related to a duke, you say?”

“Granddaughter of the late Eugene Durham, Duke of Salisbury.” Harrison wasted no time in ushering them into the hall. “This is her maid, Miranda Burke.”

“Why are you out on a night like this?” the man demanded. “Oh, but she does look to be in bad shape.”

“Thank you,” Grace managed, irritated at being discussed as if she weren’t present. She lifted her gaze to his for only a moment; it hurt to hold her head up.

“No offence intended, miss,” he said. “I’m Mr. Kingsley, Lord Sutherland’s butler. You’re at Sutherland Hall.”

“And extremely grateful to be here,” Grace managed. The name was not familiar, and she did not particularly care where they were, so long as it was out of the rain, and so long as she might use a blanket or two. Hopefully those were not as sparse as the lighting seemed to be. Save for Mr. Kingsley’s candelabra, the group remained cloaked in darkness. Had she been inclined to be curious about her surroundings, she’d have been unable to discover much.

Footsteps marched swiftly across the floor, and the shadows changed, indicating the arrival of another person, with a candle.

“What’s going on?” A woman joined them as a new volley of chills assaulted Grace. She sagged against Miranda and attempted to hold her head up and to greet the newcomer. The housekeeper,
she guessed, seeing the bottom of a starched dress and sensible shoes peeking out beneath.

“Miss Thatcher, this is Mrs. James, the head housekeeper.” The butler spoke in formalities, as if she were being presented for tea. “Mrs. James, may I present Miss Thatcher, the late Duke of Salisbury’s granddaughter, and her staff. Their carriage met with an accident. They are seeking shelter for the night, and Miss Thatcher looks to be in need of a bed immediately.”

“Well,” Mrs. James said, as much starch in her voice as in her dress. “Of course we can accommodate them, but we’ve no rooms made up. Wait here while I wake the maids.”

Grace bit back a groan of disappointment. But what did it matter if a room was made up when her head was about to burst? The marble floor going in and out of focus looked inviting enough. She felt herself wilting toward it as her coughing renewed again.

“Never mind the maids, Mrs. James,” the butler said. “Miss Thatcher may use the blue room.”

“But —”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” he said. “Better to have that on my head than a woman dying in the front hall.” Kingsley held his hand out in invitation. “Come now, I’ll show you up.” He turned away.

Grace took one step, then felt Harrison scoop her into his arms. “Thank you,” she murmured when she could breathe once more. “Thank you all. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

They followed their host to a wide, curved staircase. Harrison’s capable arms carried her up, then deposited her in front of a set of double doors halfway down the hall. The butler pushed them open and bade them enter.

Miranda helped Grace into the dark room, while the butler hurried ahead to light the fire. Grace sank into a comfortable chair, laying her head against the cool fabric. If only someone would throw a blanket over her, she would be content to sleep right here.

“How far is the nearest physician?” Harrison stood in the doorway, twirling his hat in his hands.

“A long piece,” the butler said. “You’d best not think of attempting it tonight.” He succeeded in lighting the fire, then stood and turned to them. “We’re isolated out here. The master’s not in residence, so we’re short on staff, or I’d send someone.”

Another coughing fit seized Grace as Mrs. James entered the room, her worried gaze settling upon her. “We could send for —”

“No,” Kingsley’s response was swift. “We could not.” The housekeeper and butler stared at each other.

“What?” Harrison said, addressing Mrs. James. “
Is
there a physician close?”

“Not a good one,” Kingsley said. “And not one welcomed in this house.”

“I’ve brought some night clothes,” Mrs. James said, backing down from whatever unspoken argument was between them. “Nothing fancy, but they’re clean and dry. The water’s heating for her bath.”

“No, thank you,” Grace said, before Miranda could respond. “Tomorrow is soon enough. All I care for now is a bed.” She didn’t want the entire household woken on her account.

“But Miss Thatcher —” Miranda protested. “The mud — your hair.”

“Will keep,” Grace said as firmly as she could.

“It will keep you right into your grave,” Miranda muttered. “Then poor Miss Helen ...”

Grace glanced up at her maid and the housekeeper, both with mouths turned down reproachfully. “Very well,” Grace conceded.

Miranda exchanged a look with the housekeeper; Grace knew she wasn’t behaving as a lady ought.

As Grandfather would have wished me to.

Mrs. James turned her attention to Miranda and Harrison. “When you’re finished here, I’ve things for the both of you as well, and I can show you to your quarters downstairs.”

“Thank you kindly,” Harrison said, bestowing one of his rare smiles upon the woman.

Miranda’s lips turned down. “I’d best stay here to watch over Miss Thatcher.”

“No,” Grace said. “You’ve bullied me into having a bath tonight, but then you’re to go to bed. It won’t do to have you sick too.”

Two maids appeared in the doorway, bleary-eyed and struggling to keep their buckets of steaming water from spilling. These they poured into a tub on the far side of the room, past the fire. When the women left, the butler and Harrison followed, returning a few minutes later with more water, which Miranda pronounced sufficient.

“I’ll see Miss Thatcher settled before I come down,” Miranda said, turning to the three hovering by the door. “If you’ll excuse us now, I need to get her out of her wet things.”

The others left, Miranda following them to the door and throwing the bolt behind them. She returned to Grace, still slumped in the chair and unable even to bend enough to remove her mud-caked slippers.

And to think that I once said I didn’t require a lady’s maid.
With some chagrin, Grace recalled a conversation with her grandfather shortly after she’d come to live with him. He’d insisted that she behave as befitted her newly acquired status — by wearing proper clothing and having her own personal maid. At this moment Grace could feel only gratitude; Miranda seemed a godsend.

When the wet stockings had been peeled off and tossed aside, Grace leaned forward so Miranda might reach the back of the gown.

“Soaked to the bone you are. It’ll be the death of us both if you get worse.” Miranda tugged at the wet sleeves.

“I admit to feeling poorly,” Grace murmured. “Sleep” — she yawned — “will do me well.”

“Or so we pray.” Miranda helped Grace step from her wet gown and underclothes.

Once in the tub, she could no longer keep her eyes opened but leaned her head back, near sleep as Miranda washed her hair. The warm water began to thaw her frozen limbs, and Grace thought the tub even more satisfactory than the chair.

Miranda had other ideas and pushed Grace this way and that, scrubbing and rinsing.

“Oh, let me be,” Grace complained as the last bucketful of water — not nearly so warm as the first — cascaded over her head.

“In another minute, miss.”

Grace squinted one eye, watching as Miranda reached for the bundle of dry clothing.

Though Grace was positive she couldn’t move, Miranda somehow managed to get her from the tub and into the fresh clothes. Grace put an end to her maid’s ministering when Miranda produced a comb.

“My head feels as if will explode,” Grace protested. “I’m still so cold, and my chest hurts.” All of this was true, but she probably shouldn’t have told Miranda as much. The poor woman would likely be up worrying for what was left of the night.

“Very well,” Miranda said, returning the comb to the dresser. “Let’s get you into bed.”

Grace leaned on her, then walked the few steps to the massive, canopied bed. Miranda swept back one side of the curtain, revealing a mattress piled high with pillows. “There now. That looks comfortable.” She helped Grace climb onto the high bed.

“It’s lovely,” Grace agreed. “And there’s nothing wrong with me that a little sleep won’t fix.” She tried and failed at making her voice sound light as she coughed again.

“We’ll just see what the doctor says about that tomorrow.” Miranda tucked the covers over Grace, who let her head sink into the soft pillow and snuggled under the heavy quilts, vaguely appreciating the fine bed. If only she felt better. In spite of the blankets, another shiver wiggled up her spine. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Miranda let the curtain fall back into place, and Grace listened as she left the room, closing the door behind her. Only then did Grace give in to her exhaustion and slept at once.

Nicholas Sutherland emerged from his landau and stood on the drive, staring up at the dark night and equally dark and formidable building in front of him.

Home sweet home,
he thought wryly, taking in the pile of stone that looked as if it had been abandoned some time ago.
As unwelcoming as ever.

He hadn’t always viewed it this way. When he was a child, the old castle had never seemed gloomy or forbidding, but rather the perfect house for losing one’s tutor and avoiding book work, as well as a splendid place for playing Hide and Seek with his sister. Now that he was well beyond his school years, and Elizabeth was gone — Father, too — nothing about the ivy-covered turrets and grey stone appeared splendid at all.

That he’d all but shut up the house and had allowed the gardens to run wild and hadn’t kept the walks swept or the hedges trimmed only added to the eeriness and oppressive nature of the place. But perhaps, if ghosts were real and drawn to gloom, Elizabeth and his father felt comfortable haunting here.

“Thank you, Hines. You may go now.” Nicholas dismissed the footman who’d accompanied him and waved the driver toward the stables. Alone, he made his way to the front doors, his feet crunching over the slippery gravel drive. He hadn’t bothered to have it cared for either, and weeds had sprung up between loose rock, making a treacherous pathway on the dark, wet night.

Nicholas reached the door safely, and, after more than a few minutes and several annoyed raps, the door finally swung open, revealing his rather tired and utterly surprised-looking butler. Nicholas had left his keys, along with most of his clothing and personal items, at the townhouse in London.

“Good evening, Kingsley,” Nicholas said, striding into the hall. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. I haven’t been gone that long, you know.”

“Of course not, milord. It’s just that — we weren’t expecting you.”

“Are you ever?” Nicholas asked, amused. “When is the last time you’ve known me to keep regular hours or to announce my arrival prior to my appearance?”

“Never,” Kingsley said, a subtle undertone of dryness in his voice. “I am most surprised to see you at
this
hour, though. The night has nearly passed. ‘Good morn’ is almost more fitting than ‘Good eve.’ You must have traveled the whole night through.”

Nicholas eyed Kingsley curiously as the butler hurried to close the door against the cold and rain. The speech was more than Nicholas usually heard from the butler in a month.

“I apologize for my tardiness in greeting you,” Kingsley continued. “We were not anticipating your arrival for several days yet.”

“So I gathered.” Nicholas gave Kingsley one more appraising glance but could find nothing odd in the man’s appearance excepting, perhaps, that he was dressed as if it were day, and he seemed more tired than usual.

I really should hire a full staff again.
Nicholas looked around the vast, empty foyer. Once the estate had been a lively residence — full of family and, often, friends. Now it seemed little more than a tomb, the resting place he was required to return to after his frequent haunts elsewhere. The house meant little more to him now than quiet sleeping quarters, so he saw no need to spend money or time on its upkeep. It wouldn’t matter how much he spent. Nothing could return Sutherland Hall to its former existence.

But the dark circles beneath Kingsley’s eyes made Nicholas realize that he ought to consider hiring a little more help at least.

“My business went far better — and quicker — than I had hoped,” Nicholas said by way of explanation for his predawn arrival. “And I was loath to stay in London a moment longer than necessary.”

“Understandable.” Kingsley glanced toward the staircase. “Though I am pleased to hear your endeavors met with success.”