Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1)

by Beverley Watts

  Despite her weariness, Grace had been unable to stop her mind repeating over and over the events of the last few days. It did absolutely no good at all but nevertheless prevented her from finding any respite in sleep and by the time the carriage finally entered Devonshire, her whole body was aching to such an extent she couldn’t help wondering whether she’d ever be able to walk again. Staring across at her husband’s strained face, she felt unwilling sympathy, imagining the pain he was going through from his injuries.

  “Try not to bother yerself too much lassie,” Malcolm murmured after glancing over at his master’s sleeping form. Surprised, Grace looked over at the valet. It was the first time the Scot spoken to her since they’d left London. “I would have spoken to ye earlier, but the Laird forbade it.” Malcolm cocked his head towards Nicholas who continued to sleep fitfully.

  “He’s hurting something fierce at the moment but it’s ma belief he’ll come around eventually. He’s a stubborn one but not entirely cork brained.” Malcolm gave a soft chuckle. “The fact that he had to consume the better part of a bottle of brandy to get into the carriage wi’ ye is evidence of where his heart lies. Bide yer time lassie, bide yer time.”

  Grace bit her lip at his kindness and was about to reply when Nicholas opened his eyes. For a second, disorientated, he stared at her sleepily and she drew in her breath at the slumbering desire in his eyes. She realised the exact moment the events of the last few days came back to him. His beautiful eyes darkened before he turned away and sat up hurriedly.

  “We’re about three miles away from the estate yer grace,” Malcolm offered mildly. “Will we be taking her grace to the cottage immediately or will she abide the night at the house.”

  Nicholas frowned and shook his head. “We’ll continue to Pear Tree Cottage. I gave instructions for the house to be aired and a bed made up.” He looked over at Grace, clearly reluctant to communicate directly to her. “I am sure you will be more than comfortable madam,” he offered curtly. “The cottage is small but I daresay has more room than you were accustomed to before we wed.”

  Grace’s face flamed and she clenched her hands against the seat to prevent herself from crying out in protest. Outwardly calm, she simply bent her head slightly in acknowledgement and turned to look out of the window.

  Dawn was not far away, and the familiar rolling hills of Devonshire were only now beginning to regain their colour after the black and greyness of the night.

  For Grace, the journey could not be over quick enough.

  ∞∞∞

  Reverend Shackleford had finally received a missive from the Duke of Blackmore. It was short, curt and to the point. The Duke had indeed cast Grace aside. She was to live in a cottage on the estate and his son in law made it abundantly clear that he had no wish to see either his wife or any of her family. His grace also directed that while he was in residence, weekly services were to be held within the private chapel at Blackmore as he would no longer be attending the church. They would be delivered by the curate.

  Putting the letter down, the Reverend felt a trifle light-headed. The situation was dire indeed. Putting his head in his hands, Augustus Shackleford allowed himself a moment of despondency before taking a deep breath and determinedly rallying.

  At least his eldest daughter would continue to have an actual roof over her head, and it appeared he was to continue with his incumbency, at least for the moment. Agnes would be happy they were not all about to be unceremoniously banished from Blackmore. The Reverend sighed. Happy was undeniably an over embellishment but at least there was an outside possibility his wife might actually talk to him again.

  Nonetheless, Augustus Shackleford could not escape the knowledge that it was his responsibility to put the whole terrible business to rights, and for the most part he was confident it was not beyond his capabilities. Indeed, it could be said that resourcefulness was his greatest skill; after all it was his responsibility to ensure the church collection box was acceptably full every Sunday.

  And, if he failed to come up with a suitable plan, he could always ask Percy…

  ∞∞∞

  Contrary to Grace’s fears, Pear Tree cottage was perfectly lovely. Had she not been in such a hobble she would have delighted in the charming red brick house. Downstairs consisted of a kitchen, dining room and drawing room while upstairs there were three bedrooms and even a tiny bathroom. The last was completely impractical since the length of time it would take her to heat enough water to fill the bath and carry it up the narrow stairs, would most likely render it cold again by the time she actually got into it. That said, the rooms in the rest of the house were small but nonetheless light and airy and best of all there was an enchanting walled garden with a huge apple tree which she enjoyed sitting under when the weather permitted.

  The cottage was cleaned and the bedding changed once a week. The garden was tended to and she was provided with enough victuals to ensure she wouldn’t starve, providing she knew how to cook them. For that skill Grace conceded she was truly indebted to Mrs Higgins and the many hours she’d spent in the cook’s kitchen at Blackmore.

  It was Grace’s choice to live without any domestic help. Her husband had curtly informed her that he had no care how many servants she chose to employ. Mayhap in the future she would welcome the company but at the moment she preferred that of her own.

  Autumn came and went with no news from the Duke. She had written to her father and to her sisters but had refrained from entertaining them lest Nicholas find out, thus adding credence to her supposed perfidy. She missed her sisters terribly - in particular Temperance who was closest to her in age.

  Yet, their absence was as nothing compared to her longing for her husband. Her yearning for Nicholas was a persistent ache deep in the pit of her stomach that was with her from the moment she rose in the morning until she finally fell into an exhausted sleep in the early hours. Her mind berated her endlessly for her foolhardiness until she felt as if she might scream. The worst day however came one blustery October morning when she woke to discover the onset of her menses.

  There would be no child from their union.

  She remained in her bed for the whole day allowing the tears to fall, grieving for what might have been, and for what she would never now experience. She cried until she felt as though her heart might break, and then, at last, she slept.

  To her surprise, the next day she felt slightly better. Rising just after dawn, she stared out at the distant undulating hills wreathed in early morning mist, with the barely visible glimpses of the sea between them and felt the first slight lifting of her heart. She recalled the many wonderful days spent with her sisters on the beaches of South Devonshire.

  Their father would order the stable hand to take them in the cart pulled by the only horse they owned. Lucifer had been quite young then. Smiling she remembered the Reverend’s explanation for the horse’s name. “A more beautiful beast has never likely walked this earth, nor one so deuced evil tempered. Twas your mother who named him after he bit her for the third time while still at his dam’s teat.”

  Grace shook her head. Was it any wonder they’d all grown up so unruly? She couldn’t recall a chaperone ever accompanying them on any of their outings. Truly she’d never really had the makings of a duchess, whatever her father had hoped.

  Dressing quickly in the pre-dawn chill, she went downstairs to stoke up the fire. A large stack of dry kindling had been left in the woodshed, enough to last her throughout the winter if she was careful. But then she supposed she could always ask for more if she needed it. Whatever Nicholas thought of her, she did not believe he would see her freeze to death.

  Indeed, the only thing she was lacking was reading material. She was still in possession of the two books she’d borrowed from Blackmore’s library before the ill-fated visit to London, which she fully intended to return - once she’d read them, but she hadn’t felt like reading up until now. Mayhap today was a good day to go back to her favourite pastime, providing sh
e could concentrate for long enough.

  Determinedly Grace made herself a cup of hot chocolate and snuggled up in the large armchair closest to the now roaring fire. Two hours later she was still on page six. Sighing, she finally put the book down. Reading matter was clearly not the only thing she was missing. Her mind simply could not focus on the pages in front of her.

  All of a sudden, she heard barking. It sounded like Freddy. Hurriedly she went to the window. To her amazement, she spied her father’s small curricle pulled by non-other than Lucifer himself. Freddy was dancing around the horse who was doing his best to kick the irritating dog but hampered by the traces.

  Grace never imagined a day would come when she’d feel such overwhelming delight at the sight of her exasperating father. Swiftly throwing open the door, she was immediately bowled over by Freddy who was equally delighted to see her.

  “Down boy, DOWN FREDDY,” the Reverend puffed climbing with difficulty down from the curricle. As usual Freddy paid absolutely no attention to his master and continued to dance joyfully around Grace.

  “What are you doing here father?” Grace asked when the dog finally ran off to chase an interesting scent.

  “I wished to see how you were fairing,” he responded, leaning forward to receive Grace’s dutiful kiss. “and non-too soon it seems,” he continued observing her tired pinched face. “You look as though a breath of wind would bowl you over,” he muttered moving past her to enter the cottage. “Have you been eating girl?”

  “I am quite well father, thank you,” Grace replied stiffly, following him into the kitchen, “And yes, I am very well provisioned as you can see.”

  The Reverend turned back to look at her and she was astonished to see the depth of concern in his eyes. She had never considered that her father held her in any regard. Indeed, he’d always been merely someone to avoid throughout her childhood.

  “May I offer you some tea father?” she offered hesitantly, not knowing how to deal with this suddenly thoughtful parent. Although she suspected that at least some of his concern was due to the fact that his actions may well have contributed to her disgrace, she nevertheless felt an unaccustomed warmth inside. “Please make yourself comfortable in front of the fire.”

  Half an hour later their stilted conversation finally ran out. The only noise was the crackling of the fire in the hearth and Freddy’s loud snoring as he lay as close as he could in front of it. They had covered every subject possible apart from Grace's current fall from that state, and now silence reigned.

  “Well, there’s no sense in forever avoiding mention of the Devil’s own scrape you’ve found yourself in.” Grace jumped slightly at the Reverend’s sudden loud announcement, but before she had the wit to respond, her father continued in the booming voice he usually reserved for berating his parishioners.

  “There’s no escaping the fact you’ve been shockingly loose in the haft my girl and unsurprisingly made a complete cake of yourself.”

  Grace opened her mouth but had no idea what to say. Her father’s words may have been blunt, but they were nonetheless true. Still, the fact that he’d conveniently omitted to include his part in the whole affair did not surprise her in the least. His next words however, completely dumbfounded her.

  “While it has to be said, you’re in the suds Grace and no mistake, nonetheless it remains my responsibility as your father to put matters to right.

  “You may have tied your garter in public young lady, but you may rest assured I will do everything I can to ensure you are not left languishing in this shoe box until you draw your last breath.”

  Grace simply stared nonplussed at her father until he finally sighed irritably and continued in a much milder tone, “Were you truly so cork-brained as to wish to be rid of your husband or were you just kicking up a lark? In other words, do you want to be leg shackled to this Duke of yours or not?”

  ∞∞∞

  Nicholas Sinclair felt as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. To be precise, since the day he found out about his wife’s duplicity.

  He’d never held any real love for Blackmore since he’d left the Estate at fifteen, but he’d succeeded in convincing himself that he might transform the mausoleum into a home filled with the chatter and laughter of children.

  He could actually pinpoint the precise moment this had become his dream. It was the second Grace pitched forward into his arms before the Marquis of Blanchford’s ball.

  His dream had shrivelled and died that same night, and he’d barely slept since.

  The nightmares continued to plague him, and Nicholas feared he’d become addled if they continued for much longer. Either that, or you’ll become permanently jug bitten, he thought bleakly as he poured himself another brandy. He was well aware he was dipping too deep, but it was the only thing that provided any relief from the torment he faced each night.

  The only thing that is apart from the presence of his wife. The Duke tightened his hand around the glass and closed his eyes. His whole being ached for the softness of Grace’s touch. He missed everything about her, including her clumsiness. Helplessly he recalled her loud laughter, her complete lack of propriety.

  And her kisses. Dear God, he couldn’t get the feel of her lips against his out of his mind. She had responded so sweetly to his touch, given herself fully to him without any reserve.

  Had she truly wished to be rid of him?

  Swallowing the brandy, he reflected bitterly that he’d never really know the whole truth. There was no reason for them ever to lay eyes upon one another again, not now he’d received the news that their lovemaking had not born fruit. His wife was not with child.

  Chapter Twenty

  Reverend Shackleford did not usually have such trouble locating his curate, but it had to be said, Percy had been conspicuous by his absence of late. The Reverend hoped the reason for his old friend’s continued non-attendance was not due to his getting ideas above his station, bearing in mind he’d been tasked with delivering the Duke of Blackmore’s weekly private service. Indeed, that was what the Reverend wished to discuss with him.

  Augustus Shackleford had come up with an incomparable plan to reunite his daughter with her husband and was certain Percy would be every bit as enthusiastic once he’d heard the details.

  At length, however, after looking everywhere, he’d resorted to handing Freddy a pair of Percy’s unmentionables to sniff, with instructions to fetch. Forty minutes and two pairs of unmentionables later the hound finally located the errant curate in the Red Lion.

  This was so unlike Percy who had never to the Reverend’s knowledge entered their favourite watering hole without his superior leading the way. Augustus Shackleford was most concerned. First a hair shirt and now the man was turning to drink. What the deuce could be troubling him? Even though they were both faithful servants of the Anglican Church, as a sensitive man of the cloth, the Reverend was not above listening to a confession should it make his oldest friend feel better.

  But first things first. Determinedly Reverend Shackleford hurried into the dim interior of the Red Lion, Freddy in tow, eager to share his exciting news.

  ∞∞∞

  To say the Reverend was surprised at Percy’s lack of enthusiasm for his plan would be akin to saying the weather in hell can be a trifle warm. It took three tankards of ale and some stern words before the curate finally agreed to help, although his aversion to the whole enterprise was clearly evident in his abrupt refusal of a second helping of Mrs Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding. Already on his third plateful, the Reverend couldn’t help lamenting the days when Percy would simply follow his lead without question.

  Still, the following Sunday afternoon saw them closeted in the vicarage study whilst the rest of the household were recumbent after a particularly large Sunday roast. The Reverend had even written his own sermon for the service earlier that morning and had thus succeeded in escaping the church in record time.

  “What the deuce am I supposed to do with these?” the Rever
end said, holding up a set of Agnes’ stays.

  “I think they’re supposed to go around your middle and tie at the back Sir,” responded Percy. He frowned before continuing, “I’m reliably informed they are supposed to draw in a lady’s waist, but only in the event the person in question is able to get into them beforehand. Which I’m not sure is possible on this occasion.” The relief in the curate’s voice had the Reverend regarding him with narrowed eyes.

  “Fustian nonsense man. Agnes is not exactly a diamond of the first water and it’s a long time since she’s been able to spy her drawers while standing up, so let’s have no more prevaricating.”

  Percy winced at the Reverend’s description of his wife but refrained from observing that Augustus Shackleford was hardly all the crack himself. Sighing, the curate stepped forward and taking the stays, held them close to the ground for the Reverend to step into.

  There followed a struggle of gargantuan magnitude as they gasped and wheezed in their efforts to pull the stays up until they sat round the Reverend’s middle.

  “Zooks, I’ll be lucky if I can take two breaths in this deuced thing. How the devil does Agnes succeed in walking?” The Reverend took two experimental steps forward. “If I have to wear it for long, I’ll end up as queer as Dick’s hatband.”

  “We have to tighten them yet Sir.”

  Percy’s observation as he took hold of the laces was surprisingly jovial, but before the Reverend had an opportunity to question his curate’s unexpected good humour, his wind completely left him him as Percy yanked hard and, in the Reverend’s opinion, a trifle too eagerly.