∞∞∞
The discovery that her husband had left with nary a word spoken to her had her spitting feathers. For the first time since she’d become mistress of this mausoleum, Grace felt her anger begin to stir. She had done nothing for him to treat her so. His troubled mind did not give him an excuse for boorish behaviour.
He had intimated he wished her to stay out of his way. Well disappearing to Scotland without telling her was certainly an excellent way to belabour his point. Grace stamped her foot in frustration before taking herself in hand. She was behaving like a… a… mawkish nincompoop.
Resolutely she put her ill-mannered husband out of her mind and determined she would learn everything she could about the house she was now mistress of, and mayhap learn a little about what was expected of her. For the next two weeks she explored the house from top to bottom, seeking out all its hidden nooks and crannies. When she wasn’t exploring, she spent most of her time in the library reading about Blackmore’s history. Sections of the house were clearly very old, and it had more than its fair share of gruesome legends.
She also wrote to her husband, enquiring after his health and intimating she was missing his company.
After discovering everything she could about her new home, Grace decided to move on to exploring the grounds which were much more extensive than she’d imagined. Luckily the weather remained warm and sunny, and she enjoyed many an hour wandering the formal gardens and learning about the herbs in the kitchen garden. When she wasn’t exploring, she spent her time sitting under her favourite tree in the orchard reading.
She also wrote again to her husband, enquiring after his health and this time intimating her distress that he would stay away from Blackmore and his wife for such an extended period.
To both letters, she received neither reply nor acknowledgement, and by the time a full month had passed with no word Grace had finally had enough. It had become abundantly clear that her husband held her in scant regard and was unwilling to show her even the slightest consideration or courtesy fitting as his wife and duchess.
If Nicholas didn’t think she was good enough to be his wife, then what was the use in trying to be anything other than she was. She might now be the Duchess of Blackmore, but her husband clearly did not regard her as such. Well, she was still Grace Shackleford, and she’d be damned if she would continue to try and change herself to accommodate a man who plainly had no interest in her.
If and when he wanted her help, she would willingly give it, but until then, she was done trying to make herself into something she was not.
Instead of looking to dress in something that would please her husband on the off chance he returned, Grace put on her most comfortable gown and went downstairs to pen a letter to her sisters.
Chapter Nine
Reverend Shackleford was a troubled man. He was very much afeared eldest daughter had become completely addled. She appeared to have lost whatever small sense of decorum she’d possessed and was now running wild around the countryside as though she had nary a care in the world with her siblings in willing tow.
The Reverend was sure the absence of her husband was very much at the forefront of her riotous behaviour and should the Duke ever decide to return, this wildness would cease immediately. The problem was, it might also result in his daughter being sent away in disgrace. Sighing, Reverend Shackleford saw all his aspirations about to be trampled in the dust. He couldn’t even reprimand Grace, since she now far outstripped him in rank.
This called for some kind of action. The problem was, he had no idea what action to take. Should he write a letter to his son-in-law urging his immediate return to Blackmore? Could a mere clergyman urge a duke to do anything at all?
Tare an’ hounds, he was in the suds and no mistake. So far, he’d managed to keep the sorry state of affairs from Agnes, which hadn’t been too difficult since she generally only moved from the sofa to her bed, and up to now she’d not questioned the reason why silence suddenly reigned in the house for most of the day. The problem was, in two days hence, little Anthony was due his monthly ‘afternoon’ with his mama, and it was certain the catastrophe would then be out in the open. It was no good him trying to cut a wheedle – she could spot a Canterbury tale a mile away.
If Agnes found out, his life would truly not be worth living. Clambering to his feet, he resolved to seek out Percy. Two heads were undoubtedly better than one, and he always seemed to come up with his best plans when prompted by his curate. The Red Lion would ensure complete privacy while they came up with a strategy. Calling Freddy to him, he hurried out of the house before Agnes could ask for her salts.
Two hours and three tankards of ale later, neither man had come up with anything remotely useful. The Reverend was beginning to think his only option was to lock all eight daughters up until Grace’s husband decided to come home. However, that wouldn’t stop the gossip mongers from having a field day the minute his grace stepped foot back in Blackmore. That was providing the sordid details hadn’t already reached him in Scotland. The Reverend felt his collar tighten uncomfortably at the notion of what the Duke would do once he found out.
What they needed was something to replace the gossip. Something that would overtake the current preoccupation with the Duchess of Blackmore’s scandalous behaviour.
“We could pay someone to kidnap her?” Percy offered desperately when the silence became too oppressive.
The Reverend paused with his ale halfway to his mouth. Staring into its amber depths his eyes narrowed in a way that curdled the recently consumed steak pie ominously in the pit of Percy’s stomach.
∞∞∞
Grace retied her long hair in its ribbon as she hurried round the side of the house towards the kitchen. She was hot and tired and was hoping the cook Mrs Higgins had made some of her delicious lemonade. She was looking forward to spending a peaceful half an hour in the sanctuary of the kitchen before dressing for dinner – a custom she still found tiresome in the extreme. Especially when she spent every evening meal alone in the silence with only a book for company.
While the housekeeper had initially voiced her disapproval at the idea of a duchess spending time in the kitchen, Grace knew both Mrs Tenner and Mrs Higgins secretly enjoyed her company and, over the last two months, she’d spent many an hour learning how to both cook and look after a house. While the latter was certainly a desired skill of a chatelaine of such a large mansion, as a duchess, she didn’t need any of the former skills.
That said, if she managed to persuade her husband to banish her, she would at least be able to look after herself and her sisters. The thought of having a small house somewhere with her siblings was becoming more and more appealing. Much more so than living a lonely life in solitary grandeur.
As the weeks went by with no word from Nicolas, she had finally accepted that her husband had no intention of making her his wife in the fullest sense of the word, or indeed allowing any closeness between them. If she was to be denied the solace of children, she had decided she would do her utmost to ensure a future for herself elsewhere. She knew the Duke of Blackmore would be very unlikely to divorce her given the scandal it would cause to his family name, but if she continued with her current course of action, he would be certain to wish her out of his sight.
So, she’d enlisted the willing help of her siblings and together they had occupied themselves in all manner of dubious activities as publicly as possible in the hope that word of their conduct would reach her husband’s ears. Today had seen all nine of them hiding in a hay cart, jumping out and nearly giving the unsuspecting farmer an apoplexy as he began to unload.
So far unfortunately, while they were clearly the talk of the village, the gossip didn’t appear to have travelled any further and Grace had no idea what else to do to get her absent husband’s attention.
She entered the welcoming dimness of the kitchen, enjoying the respite from the heat. The July weather remained oppressively hot and Grace fanned herself vigorously wi
th her kerchief as she seated herself at the kitchen table. Mrs Higgins clucked disapprovingly at her mistress’s dishevelled state as she first wiped her hands on her apron then poured the young woman some cooling lemonade. Mrs Tenner was nowhere to be seen and, looking down at herself Grace was grateful the housekeeper was not on hand to see the unkempt state of Blackmore’s Duchess.
Brushing off the stray bits of hay clinging stubbornly to her skirts, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d finally gone too far in her efforts. Luckily there were no other servants present and suddenly unaccountably ashamed, she quickly finished her drink and tried to make herself a little more presentable before Huntley caught site of her. She knew he would waste no time in reporting her scandalous behaviour to his master – if Nicholas ever deigned to come home. However, she genuinely liked the elderly butler and didn’t want him to think too badly of her. Although as she tiptoed past the butler’s pantry, she feared she may have already gone too far.
∞∞∞
“Sir, I’m not entirely sure this is a good idea.” Percy was struggling to cover his face with his necktie. “I mean, I think it very questionable that the Almighty would wholly approve of our plan.”
“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” panted the Reverend as he squeezed himself into an ominously itchy woollen jacket he’d ‘borrowed’ from their only stable hand.
“But Sir, what if she has an apoplexy? I’m certain the Almighty wouldn’t approve of that.”
“My daughter’s made of sterner stuff Percy, and mayhap a small fright will convince her to behave in the dignified manner befitting her station.”
“I hardly consider putting a sack over her head and dragging her from her bedroom to be a small fright,” protested Percy, much to the Reverend’s irritation.
While he had to admit they were indeed clutching at straws, word had today reached him of his daughters’ latest exploit and Reverend Shackleford knew it was time to take matters into his own hands.
They were currently closeted in the Reverend’s study, waiting for the sun to set. They would then endeavour to sneak out of the vicarage without anyone being the wiser, although judging by the noise upstairs, sneaking out unobserved was going to be a feat in itself. They were each partaking of a fortifying tot of brandy which the Reverend insisted was purely medicinal and not likely to see them both headed below stairs alongside Old Nick once they’d been put to bed with a shovel.
“At least no more than abducting one’s own daughter,” Percy could be heard muttering to himself darkly. Reverend Shackleford chose to ignore his curate’s sudden attack of the vapours, deciding to focus instead on the finer points of their plan. Or, as he thought privately, the bits that were most likely to put them in a hobble.
“Now don’t forget Percy, we are to take her by surprise when she retires to her bed chamber.”
“But how the devil are we going to get into her bedchamber?" Percy’s expletive showed the extent of his agitation and the Reverend was beginning to fear his curate was simply not up to the job.
“Leave that to me lad,” he replied soothingly, before knocking back the rest of his brandy. “You just follow my lead.
“Freddy, stay.” The Reverend took out a large ham bone he’d pilfered from the kitchen earlier, confident it would provide the necessary distraction to dissuade the hound from thinking to follow them.
Ten minutes later they were taking a short cut across the fields towards Blackmore. While nobody had actually spied their leaving, the apprehension of it had led the Reverend to tread in a large cow pat and a strong smell of manure accompanied them as they approached the shadowed mansion.
“We’ll go around the side,” the Reverend advised his curate in a loud stage whisper. “Grace informed me that the scullery maid usually leaves the basement door open in case of a rendezvous with her sweetheart.” Percy looked over at the Reverend with a scandalous expression. “Does the young woman have no morals?” he asked faintly, “And how is it that the Duchess allows such behaviour underneath her roof.”
The Reverend snorted. “Are we talking about the same duchess who was last seen bursting out of a hay cart?” He shook his head and sighed. “I think my daughter was hoping I’d see fit to speak with the cur in question and persuade him to make an honest woman of her maid. Grace’s heart is entirely too soft I fear.”
He pointed to a shadowed alcove and without any further words, the two men tiptoed towards a set of dark steps.
Luck was with them as they found their way above stairs. The hall was dim, with the only strategically placed candlelight casting fantastical shadows over the walls. Everywhere was silent and Percy began to feel himself sweating at the thought of them being caught in such a compromising position. Worse, there was a strong smell of manure from the Reverend’s boots and looking back Percy could see a trail of dark brown patches.
“Sir,” he whispered urgently, intending to beg his superior to abandon their mad scheme forthwith. The Reverend held up his hand for silence however and habit caused Percy’s words to die in his throat.
“I think Grace is likely to be in the family dining room,” the Reverend whispered excitedly.
“We don’t know where that it,” hissed Percy, the very opposite of excited. “And we don’t know where her deuced bedchamber is either.”
The Reverend glanced over at his curate with a frown. This was the second time in as many hours his curate had uttered an expletive. A previously unheard-of occurrence.
“Confound it Percy,” he whispered, “this is no time to be chuckleheaded. We’ll wait in the shadows under the stairs until she makes her way to her chamber, then we’ll follow her. Simple.”
Percy’s wild eyes inferred it was anything but simple and the Reverend knew if his curate decided to make a run for it, they’d both be in the suds. “Get a bit of pluck to your backbone,” he hissed, taking Percy’s arm and guiding him into an area of blackness. “No one will spy us here.”
Before Percy could repeat his concerns about the trail of manure they’d left behind them, a door opened at the end of the corridor and light footsteps came towards them. It was Grace. She passed by them without detecting their presence but stopped as she reached the bottom of the stairs, lifting her head and sniffing with frown.
“She can smell the cow shit you trod in… Sir,” Percy whispered hysterically. The Reverend felt himself begin to perspire. His curate was about to make a run for it. He could feel it in his bones. Deciding it was now or never, he hurriedly pulled his necktie over his face and burst out of their hiding place brandishing his sack. Grace just had time to turn towards them before he dropped the sack over her head shouting, “Help me you dolt.”
Percy paused, then suddenly rushed out yelling, “Your money or your life,” causing the Reverend to stare at him open mouthed, completely flummoxed for once.
“What on earth are you doing father?” Grace’s indignant words caused them both turn confounded to their captive whose head was still covered by the sack.
Chapter Ten
Nicholas opened the coach door and climbed out, wincing as he felt the pull of muscles on his injuries. After two months of being gone from Blackmore, he found himself looking treacherously forward to seeing his wife again.
His absence had been explained away as a necessity to see his estate in Scotland. Nicholas knew he wasn’t fooling anybody, but he’d needed to put some distance between himself and his all too intuitive wife.
Unfortunately, neither the distance, nor his determination to throw himself into his work had prevented his daytime thoughts roaming again and again to the sight of his wife in her undergarments. He told himself such carnal thoughts were perfectly understandable given that it had been years since he’d seen a woman in such disarray, but while that was true, he’d never in the past given any thought to a woman past the initial slaking of a need.
Malcolm had admonished him on several occasions for his hasty escape, in particular his failure to leave any kind
of a note for his wife. The Scot had just had the time to write a brief note to Mrs. Tenner on his way out but was not able to shed any light on how long the Duke intended to stay away.
Nicholas felt guilty about leaving without speaking to Grace, but Malcolm had no idea how embarrassing it had been to know that Grace had witnessed him at his lowest point. For once he was grateful his valet was following behind on the morrow.
He would have to face Grace about it and Nicholas had no idea what to say. To make matters worse, he hadn't responded to either of her letters and had sent no word concerning his impending return, so his sudden arrival would take his wife completely unawares.
Still the hour was late, so with luck that conversation at least would wait until morning. Not wanting to rouse his elderly butler, Nicholas dismissed the coachman and made his way round to a side door he’d used often as a boy – usually when he and Peter wanted to come and go undetected. As he picked his way slowly past the greenhouse, his thoughts returned again to his wife as they so often did. Too often he knew.
He pictured her in her bedchamber and unwillingly felt a tightening in his breeches that had nothing to do with his injuries. What the bloody hell was he going to do? So far, he’d made a complete mull it. Perhaps he should have simply remained at his estates in Scotland, but the thought of never seeing Grace again caused a feeling of nausea deep in the pit of his stomach.
Abruptly the silence was broken by distant shouting. Frowning he pulled out his pistol which he carried as a necessary precaution for long journeys and picked up his pace. Entering the main house through the boot room, he crept silently through the kitchen and on into the formal dining room. He could hear voices coming from the main hall, but the shouting had ceased.
Pushing open the dining room door with his foot, he cautiously peered round the corner to the foot of the stairs where stood his wife, still dressed for dinner, her father, dressed in a ridiculous woollen jacket that was clearly three sizes too small and looked as though it had been last used in a stable, and a slim, weasel faced man who Nicholas had not come across before. All three were arguing.
Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1) Page 6
