Except that her father had forgiven her, it seemed.
Josiah had never told her that the earl had tried to make peace. Perhaps her husband had been afraid she’d abandon him and return to her earlier life. Perhaps they’d both have been better off if she had. They’d never known a moment of true happiness in their marriage. Her love for Matthew shone a stark light on the sterility, emotional and physical, of her life with Josiah.
The earl was still speaking with an urgency she’d never heard from him before. “Then five years ago, I tried to make amends again, hoping your resentment had softened with time. But you’d disappeared. The shop in York was derelict and none of your neighbors knew where you’d gone. I’ve searched high and low, had my men asking after you in every bookshop in Britain. I’ve even had my agents checking in America.”
“I was in Ripon,” Grace said. “Until a few weeks ago, anyway.”
“Ripon…” The earl paled until he was the color of new paper and staggered back as though she’d hit him.
“Are you all right, my lord?” Grace surged forward to support her father but at the last moment, hesitated. Would he want her help?
He quickly found his balance but she noticed that the hands on his stick were white-knuckled with tension. “You were only thirty miles from Marlow Hall? All this time?”
“Yes, on a farm. Sheep.” Grace’s mouth flattened in a wry line as she spread her hands in front of her so her father could see. “Here are the scars.”
“Heaven curse me.” His face retained its unhealthy pallor while his voice was gruff and shaking with emotion. He clutched the stick as though it was all that kept him upright. “My little girl with a workman’s hands. I’d brought you up fit to become a duchess. What have I done? What have I done? How can you ever forgive me, child?”
How she hated to see her father like this. And the fault, after all, was hers. She twined her hands together in front of her and forced herself to speak.
“I think…” She mustered all her courage and went on. “I think it is for you to forgive me, Father.” This time, the word father emerged without strain.
His face contorted with emotion. “Oh, Grace, my dearest girl, I forgive you with all my heart, as I hope you will in time forgive me. I’ve been such a fool but I hope the
years have made a difference to the man I was. I hope they’ve taught me wisdom.” He paused and extended his arm. “Walk with me back to the house, daughter?”
Grace caught a flash of painful vulnerability in his face. She was astonished to realize that even now, he was far from confident she’d accept his escort. The Earl of Wyndhurst she recalled from her girlhood had always been utterly sure of himself.
She took a deep breath, knowing the rest of her life hinged on what happened now. A smile would reassure her father but she couldn’t summon one, no matter how she tried.
The earl had made mistakes. So had she. Both of them had paid a heavy price for their sins, if what she saw now was any indication.
When she spoke, her voice was calm and sure. “I’d be honored, Father.”
The bedroom was dark as Grace crept inside. Perhaps her mother was asleep, although it was only mid-afternoon. On the long carriage journey up from Somerset, she’d learned from her father that the countess spent most of her days dozing in her closed room. It seemed such a tragic contrast to the vibrant, vital woman Grace remembered.
Quietly she shut the door behind her and immediately the stuffy atmosphere became a terrifying reminder of Lord John. Her heart raced and the breath caught in her throat. She fought the trapped feeling that threatened to suffocate her.
Then the familiar scents of roses and beeswax surrounded her and dissipated the choking panic. The combined scents transported her back to childhood and brought tears to her eyes. Because she had moved a thousand miles beyond that spoiled, innocent girl who was lost forever.
The smell made the past so close, so tangible. She took a deep breath and leaned against the door. It was too dark for her to see the beautiful inlaid pattern of musical instruments in different woods. But the child inside her remembered the violins and flutes on the back of the door. Just as the child remembered the soft blues and pinks of the floral carpet on the floor and the blue silk hangings that shrouded the high, elaborately carved bed on its platform.
“Who’s there?”
Even her mother’s voice was different. High-pitched and querulous. She was only fifty but she sounded like a frightened old woman.
Grace couldn’t speak over the grief clogging her throat. This was wrong, so wrong.
The bedclothes rustled as her mother shifted nervously on the mattress. “Who is it? Is that you, Elise? If you’ve come to dress me for dinner, I don’t think I’m up to going downstairs tonight.”
Her mother never ate meals in the dining room anymore. She’d heard the bewildered love and sorrow in her father’s voice as he described his wife’s behavior since Philip’s death. Learning of her mother’s total retreat from life had filled her with guilt and piercing sadness.
It was worse standing in this room now and seeing for herself.
“Elise?”
“It’s…” Grace stopped and tried again. “It’s not your maid, Mamma.”
The figure in the bed lay so still that Grace could almost touch the silence. Then, so softly that she hardly heard the word, “Grace?”