On trembling legs that she wasn’t sure would support her, Grace stepped forward. “Yes, Mamma. It’s Grace.”
“My little Grace…” Another rustle of the bedclothes. Then in a stronger voice. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
It was so hard to force words out. “N-no. I’m really here.” Her strange paralysis shattered and she dashed across the carpet to fall to her knees beside the bed. “I’m really here, Mamma.”
“I don’t believe it.” Her mother rolled over onto her side and reached out to stroke Grace’s face as if only touch could confirm her presence. When Grace felt the dance of those loving fingers across her cheek, she closed her eyes.
She was home again.
Grace sucked in a shaky breath. Even through the shadows, she could see how sunken and pallid her mother’s face had become. The scraggly strands of long hair that escaped her cap were gray and lifeless. The last nine years hadn’t been kind to the Countess of Wyndhurst. Little trace remained of the celebrated beauty who had married the earl and reigned from Marlow Hall as queen of county society.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” the countess whispered in a broken voice.
“So did I.” The words emerged thickly, indistinctly.
“Why didn’t you come when…when Philip died?” A trace of anger. “I needed you, Grace, and you weren’t here.”
Why hadn’t she come? Josiah would have forbidden her but she could have disobeyed him. In her heart, she’d defied him for so many years by then, disobeying him in reality wouldn’t have made things worse between them. She’d thought her father hated her, but she should have been brave enough to face his anger. She could have at least tried.
She’d been wrong. And cowardly. And cruel.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a broken voice. “I’m so sorry.”
“I miss Philip so much.” Tears began to fall from the countess’s dull eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know, Mamma, I know,” Grace murmured, rising to sit on the edge of the bed. Curled up under the covers in her delicate white nightgown, her mother seemed as small and fragile as a sparrow. Very gently, Grace encircled the frail body with her arms and cradled her mother against her.
For a moment, her mother’s thin form was tense, as though she were unused to human contact. Then she bent her head to Grace’s shoulder and burst into an exhausted fit of weeping.
Grace’s hold tightened and she leaned her cheek against the lace of her mother’s cap. She had so much to say, there was so much she wanted to know. But she stayed silent.
She’d always loved her mother—she’d loved her whole family, although it had been a thoughtless, selfish love. What she’d learned about love from Matthew gave her the wisdom to know that for the present, silent comfort was what her mother needed.
Eventually, her mother stopped crying and raised her head. Grace was so used to the gloom by now, she had no trouble reading the expression on the countess’s face. She looked tired and sad, but there was a peace there that had been missing before.
“Open the curtains, Grace. I want to see my daughter.”
“Yes, Mamma.” Grace rose and threw back the heavy draperies so that bright light flooded the room, banishing the darkness.
Chapter 27
Kermonde’s carriage lumbered along the track to the estate Grace had fled four months ago. In the Morocco leather interior, tense silence reigned. Grace was masked and sat opposite the duke. Beside her, her father stared broodingly out into the twilight.
She nervously twisted her gloved hands in the skirt of her dark green merino traveling dress. Her heartbeat drummed so loudly in her ears, it drowned out the carriage’s endless creak. The cloudy sky and thick trees crowding the road turned the evening into deepest night. She shivered, trying not to read the darkness as an omen of looming disaster.
What had happened since she’d last seen Matthew? Was he fit? Was he unharmed? Was he alive? Dear God, let her not be too late. Four months was a long time, even for someone who hadn’t counted every frustrating minute as an hour.
When the duke’s men had finally found Dr. Granger, the sham physician confirmed he’d seen Matthew recently. He’d said nothing else to ease her fears. Reading the doctor’s testimony included in her godfather’s letter, she’d choked with sick, impotent anger. Dr. Granger had boasted of beatings, purges, bleedings, and blisterings he’d administered to the adolescent marquess. The memory of Matthew’s ruined back tormented her. Now, graphic knowledge of the abuse he’d suffered as a youth sent nightmares to shatter what little sleep she snatched.
Dr. Granger claimed he’d only examined his patient on his latest visit. But had Monks and Filey continued the doctor’s cruel methods under Lord John’s orders?
She’d begged her godfather to send someone to spy on the estate, but Kermonde had been reluctant. If Lord John caught a whiff of the plot against him, he could spirit Matthew
away beyond chance of rescue.
“Peace, child. Everything will reach a satisfactory conclusion.” Her father placed one large hand over her restless fingers. He must have watched her long enough to guess the dizzying swirl of dread and doubt inside her.
She turned her head and met his eyes in the dimness. “I hope so.”