The weeks passed, turning into months, and before Grace knew it, an entire year had passed. She had spent that year in the shadow of her mother-in-law, the Dowager Countess Worthington, who seemed to have infinite patience, when it came to teaching her son’s new wife all there was to know about running a great house and managing accounts for the fields and herds that went with it.
But Grace also spent as much time as she could with her husband, and was delighted to discover that the reality of marriage was actually better than any young girl’s dreams of it could ever be.
Thomas seemed pleased to have her at his side whenever he was free from his own duties of managing the estate. He was teaching her to drive a pony cart and even ride Little Dove, an aging grey hunter who was content to simply walk quietly as she steered him around the yard.
Yet the candlelit nights that they spent together in their own room only assured her that she had chosen the only man that she would ever want. They sometimes spoke of their first night together in the apple orchard, and it became a sweet secret that only the two of them would ever share.
Her parents, brothers, aunt, and uncle found that living on the expanded grounds of Applewood Cottage was exactly to their liking and actually far better than living on the estate would have been. Their lives were full and busy with apples and goats and feathers and fabrics, and Grace delighted in seeing them often, both at the cottages and up at Worthington.
And Grace had set herself another project. She began by calling on Beatrice Clarke one afternoon over at Feathering Park.
“Mrs. Clarke,” Grace began, as they sat down over a pot of fresh coffee and some wonderful apricot cakes, “I’m thinking of beginning a new project. And I wondered whether you might help me with it.”
“Oh?” said Beatrice, sitting up and brightening considerably. “Are you looking for a way to pass the time in the long afternoons? Because I would be delighted to teach you to play whist! I adore it!”
“Yes, I know you do,” said Grace, and then laughed. “But I’m afraid I have no luck at cards. I had something else in mind.”
“Something else.” Beatrice sighed, and glanced out of the window. “What sort of project, then, Lady Worthington?”
“Well, you see – as you know, I never had much of an opportunity to learn to draw or paint when I was young. So, Mrs. Branch, from the Dove and Daisy Shop down in Birdwell, has agreed to come up three afternoons a week and give me some lessons.”
Beatrice shrugged, taking a long drink of her sweetened, creamy coffee. “That will be very nice, I am sure,” she said politely, though her voice sounded quite bored.
“I would love some company for this,” Grace went on. “So, I would like to invite you to sit in on the lessons with me.”
“Me?”
“Of course. I would love to have a friend for company while I learn. And since I know you would have had instruction in such things while a girl, you would certainly be able to give me a little helpful criticism as I learn.”
Grace sat back to enjoy her own coffee, watching as Beatrice realized what an opportunity this would be to both gain praise for her own work – compared to a novice like Grace – and feel superior to someone else.
“Why, I should love to join you! It sounds like a very fine time. I will be there. You may count on it!”
A few days later, Beatrice arrived at Worthington for the first drawing and painting lessons. She didn’t seem too enthusiastic, but it was clear that she would do whatever Lady Worthington wanted her to do. So, she sat obediently enough in one of the withdrawing rooms, while Mrs. Branch instructed them both in the basics of sketching and in painting with watercolors.
Beatrice went along, again seeming bored with re-visiting lessons she had first received at the age of eight. But she was certainly good at criticizing Grace’s work, though Grace just smiled very patiently.
“I do thank you for your help, Mrs. Clarke,” said Grace. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Why, not at all, not at all, my lady,” said Beatrice, putting the final touches on her own painting. It was a still life of a delicately painted china cup with a stack of coffee beans, a pitcher of fresh cream, and a bowl of newly ground tan sugar crystals surrounding it.
“That really is quite good,” said Grace, and meant it. “I can even see the drops of water on the surface of the cold pitcher.”
Beatrice lit up at the praise, as she always did. “Thank you! I think I will try cakes and flowers next. I have some roses at home – ”
“That sounds lovely,” Grace broke in smoothly. “And before we go, I have some news! Mrs. Robbins sent a note asking whether her daughter, Merope, might join us in our lessons. What do you think?”
“Why, I should love that! I adore company and I’m sure we could all help each other even more!”
“I’m sure we can, too.” It was plain that Beatrice was excited at the prospect of having two other women to compete with and outshine.
But Grace would never tell Beatrice that the real reason she’d invited her to the painting lessons was because Thomas – and, of course, Simon – had become aware that Beatrice’s gambling debts were getting out of control. Sitting at card tables night after night was no way for a respectable young woman to live, especially one who hoped to have children before long.
Soon, Grace, Beatrice, and Merope were meeting regularly in the afternoons at Worthington and enjoying their lessons with Mrs. Branch, first in the withdrawing room and then, a little later, at different spots around the estate.
Grace very much hoped that perhaps taking up another activity might give Beatrice the same sense of satisfaction that she’d been getting from gambling, especially if she could be praised for it.
So far, Beatrice seemed to enjoy painting very much. It remained to be seen if it would be enough to keep her from the whist tables.
~
One June morning, as Midsummer Day approached, Grace was just leaving the kitchens after directing the servants as to what to prepare for dinner that evening and what to purchase for the week – and looked up to see Thomas walking towards her.
“Good morning, my bride,” he said, and with no one looking at them he gave her a kiss on the forehead.
Grace warmed to it, as always, and looked up at him. “Good morning, my husband. What task do you have for me now?”
“Task? Am I overworking you that much?”
“Not at all. You simply have that look about you that says you have something for me to do.”
“Well – you’re right.” He smiled and took her by the arm. “Come with me to the library.”
Inside the peaceful room, with shelves of books lining all four walls, Thomas walked to a table near one of the windows overlooking the green fields. That table was normally kept empty except for a lantern and was used for opening large books. Now, though, it held only a fairly large framed painting, about two feet wide and perhaps three feet long, lying flat on the table’s surface.
Grace looked down at the painting. She saw a portrait in oils of a very handsome young man with dark hair and light hazel eyes. His face was very refined and also very determined, rather like a fiery racehorse, but she noted that it didn’t have the same quiet, steady confidence that Thomas had.
“He must be a relative of yours,” she said. “I can very much see the resemblance, though he looks somewhat younger.”
“You’re right. That is my first cousin on my mother’s side.”
Grace frowned a bit, still studying the portrait. “I don’t remember meeting him. He wasn’t at our wedding, was he? Surely I would not forget him.”
“You have not forgotten. He was not there, though I think you will remember his name.”
“He can only be James Brookford, your cousin. I do remember you speaking of him and of how disappointed you were that he did not attend our wedding.”
“Quite right. And I can tell you that he is something of a mystery in the family.”
“A mystery?” She looked up at her husband and smiled. “It sounds very intriguing! Do tell.”
Thomas smiled back at her, but with a last glance at the portrait, he paced a few steps and looked out one of the other windows. “James is, indeed, a few years younger than I and used to be quite steady. Two years ago, he was engaged to a fine young woman and seemed to be completely smitten with her. My mother and his mother – my Aunt Amelia – were having a fine time planning the wedding.”
Grace hung on his every word. “But – ?”
“But, one day, not long before our own wedding, we received a letter from Aunt Amelia that the wedding had been called off. And it seemed to be the young lady who had done so.”
“With no explanation?” Grace frowned.
“None that we ever received. All we knew was that James seemed to undergo a change. This rather reserved and soft-spoken young man – born and raised in the country to a very good family – had gone to London and become something of a rakehell.”
“A mystery, indeed. Now my curiosity is raised about your cousin. I certainly do want to meet him.”
“You may get the chance. Aunt Amelia wrote to my mother and said that James has returned home. She would like him to come and stay here for a time to see if that might change his outlook on life. She would say no more than that.”
“Of course. I would love to have him here for as long as he wants to stay. This house is so large, that I’m still finding new rooms!” Grace walked to her husband and stood close beside him at the window.
Thomas sighed. “His mother despairs of him, so I would like to make one more effort to help. Now that all is going so well here, perhaps a change of scene would help.”
“I would like that very much. I would love to help him, if we can.”
“We will try. So far, no one has been able to make any difference to him. We shall see.”
“When will he arrive?”
“Aunt Amelia wrote to ask if Midsummer might be convenient.”
“That’s in about two weeks. Certainly.” Grace drew a deep breath, thinking. “It could be my first attempt at throwing a large party. Even a ball! We could do it to welcome him.”
“We could,” said Thomas. “Though I would suggest something wholesome, such as an afternoon picnic. It might be well to hold a gathering that did not involve too much of whiskey or gambling – at least, to start with.”
“That would be perfect. I’m sure everyone would enjoy a picnic on Midsummer Day. Oh, I’ll invite everyone we know! All of my family, of course, and Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, and I’m sure Mrs. Robbins would want to attend. She will bring her daughter, Merope.”
“I think it’s a fine idea, Grace,” said Thomas. “I know that you and Merope have become good friends.”
“We have, we have! She has been coming here with Beatrice Clarke for our painting lessons. But I am really thinking of her friend, Sally Henson. She is young and can be a bit silly, but she is from a good farm family to the south of Birdwell. To the best of my knowledge, she is not engaged or even spoken for. I am sure she would love to come and meet your handsome cousin!”
Thomas grinned. “You see? You have started your womanly machinations already. My poor cousin will not stand a chance against the lot of you.”
“I certainly hope not!” said Grace with a laugh, and together, they left the library.
~
On the day of the Midsummer picnic, all of Grace’s family arrived at the house just past noon. Very soon after that, the people of the town began to ride their horses and drive their small wagons up the hill to Worthington House. Among them were Merope Robbins and Sally Henson.
Grace especially hurried to greet Merope and Sally, glad to have two other young women near her age. It was true that Merope was a bit haughty and seemed to look far more at the size of a man’s purse than she did at his character, and Sally seemed to forget her down-to-earth family and try to copy Merope’s frank snobbery whenever she was around the rather arrogant Miss Robbins.
But Grace hoped that perhaps Sally would forget all that once she was at the party, especially if James Brookford did join them as his mother had said he would. But it was now near one o’clock and there was still no sign of him.
Grace kept quite busy, greeting her guests and running to the kitchens to make sure all was ready. Finally, it was time for the picnic baskets to be handed out to the guests for them to carry, and they all followed a small wagon drawn by Raven, which held blankets, dishware, and extra refreshments.
The dowager countess followed, too, in her favorite little governess car, which today was drawn by Woodlark.
The guests all seemed to be in very good spirits as they walked along in the fine warm day, with only high soft clouds to occasionally shield them from the sun. Grace was glad to see that her father had actually made the trip, too, and seemed content to walk along beside her mother. She had, of course, made arrangements with the family to quickly and quietly take him back home should he become confused or agitated. So far, it looked as though he was enjoying the day very much.
Merope and Sally walked together, and of course, a few of the young single men in attendance walked with them. Merope seemed to be talking non-stop and would never let anyone forget that she was the daughter of Birdwell’s founders, Ezra and Agnes Robbins.
Sally, though, seemed to be a little quieter today and was behaving more like the steady country girl that Grace knew her to be. Again, Grace was hopeful that if James Brookford did indeed arrive today – or at any time in the near future – he and Sally might be drawn to each other.
The late June day allowed a little sun in through the clouds. Very soon, the party spread out the blankets on a grassy hilltop and sat down to enjoy the fine cold chicken, fresh chopped broccoli, and tomatoes with bits of goat cheese mixed in, breads with butter and apple jelly, and roasted potatoes with butter and parsley.
John and Noah spent most of their time, eating as much of the good food as they could possibly hold, and were quite excited to hear about the stack of new chapbooks that Grace had waiting for them back at the house.
Then, as they all sat, lingering over the apricot cakes for dessert – Beatrice Clarke had very generously offered the recipe to Grace’s cooks – there was the sound of quick hoofbeats, coming towards them over the grass.
Everyone looked up. The dowager countess, especially, was delighted to see a couple of stable boys, leading out her favorite pony, Oriole, who jogged along with her new foal at foot – a little golden filly who looked just like her dam.
The dowager quickly rose from her chair at the edge of the picnic, took up her cane, and walked as quickly as she could towards the mare and foal. “Oh, I am so happy to see them,” she said. “Goldfinch. We’ll name the little one Goldfinch.”
“Goldfinch it is,” said Thomas. Then he paused, watching as someone else approached the little filly.
Grace caught her breath. Her father, with her mother close beside him and holding tight to his arm, walked slowly towards Oriole. He stopped a few steps away and stood still, smiling, as the curious foal walked over to him and was brave enough to sniff at his outstretched hand. She even allowed him to scratch her soft fuzzy neck before shaking her head and dashing off again, running circles around the patient Oriole.
“I believe that’s the first time he has gone near any horse since the accident all those years ago,” Grace whispered to Thomas. “I’m so glad to see it. And my mother says he has not touched a drop since dawn.”
He nodded. “Small miracles are everywhere, if we but look for them.”
Sitting down again, Grace caught sight of Beatrice Clarke beside her husband on the other side of the gathering. She seemed to be handing him something – a small flat object, like a book, or –
“Oh,” breathed Grace. “I know what that is. Thomas, do you see?”
“It looks like she has given him – a painting?”
“Yes. She painted a small portrait of him,” Grace said. “Instead of doing something to gain attention from everyone else, this time she did something only for him.”
They watched as Simon’s face lit up with happiness and he leaned over to give his wife a small kiss on the cheek. “I see that she only gave it to him, instead of showing it to everyone here and waiting for praise from each one,” noted Thomas. “I’d count that as another miracle.”
“So would I,” said Grace with a laugh, and smiled up at her husband as he gave her a kiss on the cheek as well.
Again, there was the sound of hoofbeats on the grass behind them. This time, though, it sounded like a much larger horse at a canter, and Grace turned to see who it might be.
She caught hold of Thomas’s arm. “Grand miracles, too,” she whispered. “Perhaps more than grand. Look, there.”
A very tall bay horse with a white face and four white stockings eased into a trot just as they turned to look. His rider was a slim, but strong-looking man with very dark hair and what appeared to be light hazel eyes.
The horse halted. The rider stepped down and bowed to the gathering, especially to Thomas and Grace. “Good day to you all,” he said. “My name is James Brookford. I am Earl Worthington’s cousin, newly arrived from London.”
They were just making the greetings and introductions when Grace’s view of James was suddenly blocked. All she could see was the back of Sally Henson’s brown hair and Merope Robbins’s blonde hair.
The two girls curtsied to him. Grace stepped aside so she could still see, and of course, James looked quite pleased as he bowed to each of them. “Well! A very fine welcome this is, I must say. I am James – ”
He paused, and Grace realized that he and Merope had just locked gazes. His face grew serious and neither of them moved. “I am James Brookford,” he finally managed to say. “And – and I am at your service. Would you be so kind as to show me to the refreshments?”
“Of course, sir,” said Merope, and placed her fingers on his arm. They were gone before she and Thomas even had a chance to greet him. And poor Sally, stricken that he had barely even looked at her before disappearing with her friend, quickly hurried away to sit near Beatrice Clarke.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Grace. “I’m not certain that your cousin will not regret his decision. I do think Sally would have suited him much better!”
Thomas shrugged. “One never knows,” he said. “Perhaps James will change his mind as he gets to know them better.”
“I suppose so.” They did make a pretty couple, Grace had to admit. Merope was a slender little blonde, almost delicate looking, while James was taller with very dark hair and light hazel eyes and quite the mysterious, worldly air about him.
A rakehell and a fortune hunter? It may be too wild a match to survive . . . especially out here in the quiet hills of Birdwell and Worthington!
But that remained to be seen. For now, Grace stood close to her own husband and looked out over the beautiful grounds of Worthington House, which held all of the family and friends she held most dear . . . the place that was now and forever her home.
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