His Saving Grace

by Sharon Cullen

  Michael tapped his cane on the ground and looked down at his feet. It seemed he looked everywhere but at her. “I wanted it to be special, but that seems out of my…” He frowned. “Out of my…I just can’t…” A long pause followed. He shook his head and waved his hand in the air. “There’s much we need to discuss, but I’m weary from traveling, and find I need to rest. Is there a room for me to use?”

  “This is your home, Michael. I know it’s quite a step down from the manor house, but you are more than welcome here. I can show you to my bedroom.”

  He stood. “I appreciate your kindness, but if you don’t mind, I’ll take a room to myself.”

  It took all of her immense social training not to show how much he’d just hurt her. She knew she should be relieved that he was planning to stay, but he clearly had no plans to stay with her. It was common for a husband and wife of nobility to occupy separate bedrooms, but she and Michael had never followed that protocol. They had their own chambers and set of rooms, but at night they always slept together.

  “Of course,” she said. “I can have a room prepared for Tarik as well.”

  “Tarik will stay with me. He has a gift for being able to sleep anywhere. If you have extra blankets, he can make his bed on the floor.”

  Grace looked over at Tarik, who appeared not to be listening. Expecting a guest to sleep on the floor was unheard of, but there was nothing she could say, and Michael had made it quite clear that he did not wish her presence in his bed.

  She walked up the stairs with as much dignity as she could muster, while inside she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She wanted to turn around and fold herself into Michael’s embrace. She wanted to feel her husband’s arms around her again. She wanted to put her head against his chest and listen to him breathe. She wanted to sleep next to her husband again. Michael apparently did not want any of that. She had not thought that her heart could be any more broken.

  She had been wrong.

  “It’s not much,” she said, opening the door and wincing inwardly. Thank goodness Ida periodically aired out the guest rooms and changed the linens. In fact, this week was linen changing week, so the room was fit for company. Michael probably would be appalled, considering the fine appointments at the manor house. This room was clean and bright, but the carpet was threadbare in places and too small for the room. The bed at least would be big enough, but the only other pieces of furniture were a chest of drawers, a washstand, and an old upholstered chair. She should be relieved that the floor was sound. And the fireplace worked. Somewhat.

  “This will do,” Michael said, stepping inside without even looking at the appointments. “Compared to where I came from, this is luxury.”

  Tarik swept past her, carrying a piece of luggage that he must have taken off the carriage. He placed the luggage on the bed and began removing clothing from it.

  “I will find some blankets,” Grace said.

  Michael grunted as he untied his cravat.

  “When dinner is prepared, I will bring it up.”

  “No need,” he said. “I don’t have much of an appetite lately.”

  Grace quickly took in his gaunt appearance. “Surely you must be starving. I will be happy to do it.”

  “No. But thank you anyway.”

  She looked around the room with a sense that she wasn’t needed, and yet she could not leave quite yet. “You need water in your pitcher if you want to clean up.” She grabbed the empty water jug off the washstand.

  “Leave it, Grace. If I need something, I will send Tarik for it.”

  She paused, the empty water pitcher in her hand, and looked at Tarik, unpacking Michael’s clothing. Michael couldn’t have made it any clearer that he did not want her; nor did he require her services. It seemed that she had been replaced by an efficient servant.

  Quietly, she replaced the water jug as she fought unexpected tears. “Very well. If you should need anything, you have only to ask.”

  “I won’t need anything.”

  Tarik quickly looked up at her, then just as quickly looked away, but Grace swore she saw sympathy in his gaze.

  She walked out of the room but turned before shutting the door. Michael was speaking to Tarik in a language she did not know. It was as if he had already dismissed her from his mind. Feeling useless, she closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Four

  Somehow Grace managed to descend the stairs, even though she was shaking so hard she could barely walk. She made it to the kitchen and sank onto the bench at the table.

  Ida turned from chopping vegetables, took one look at her, and reached for the brandy on the upper shelf. She poured a goodly amount in a glass and handed it to Grace.

  “Thank you, Ida.”

  Ida and Grace had been together so long they had become far more than domestic help and mistress. So it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Ida to sit across from Grace and take her shaking hand. “Well, this is a surprise,” she said.

  Grace took a fortifying breath, the first she’d been able to take since Michael stepped out of the carriage. “It certainly is, isn’t it?”

  “Not the reunion I’d expect.” Leave it to Ida to cut right to the point.

  “He’s changed.”

  “He fought in a war. There’s not a man who would be the same.”

  “I suppose.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Grace took a sip of brandy, but rather than fortifying her, it sat in her stomach like a lead ball. “That’s up to Michael. He’ll have to inform Nigel of his…” Sudden resurrection? Rising from the dead? What was she to call this? And how would Nigel take the news? Not that she was overly concerned with Michael’s brother. He’d never given two thoughts to her other than what an inconvenience she was to him.

  Ida patted her hand. “That’s not what I meant. I meant what are you to do about Sir Timmons?”

  Grace stared at Ida. She put her suddenly aching head in her hands and fought the urge to cry. “I’d forgotten all about him.”

  “He needs to know as soon as possible, I would think. One can’t be betrothed while one is married.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Tomorrow.” Oh, Lord, how was she to tell Clayton?

  “Where is Lord Ashworth?”

  For a moment Grace thought Ida was speaking of Nigel, then realized she was referring to Michael. “He retired for the night.”

  “Already? Without dinner?”

  “He appeared exhausted.”

  “Oh, dear. Oh, Miss Grace. I don’t know whether to be thrilled for you or worried about you. A little of both, I guess.”

  Grace should have been thrilled. She wanted to be, and she supposed a part of her was thrilled that her husband was home, asleep upstairs. He’s simply tired, Grace. He needs to readjust. As soon as he becomes accustomed to being back, then you can have the reunion you hoped for.

  She rubbed her eyes and fought the urge to laugh and cry at the same time. Right now she had to get through tonight, then tomorrow, then the day after that.

  She and Ida ate dinner together. George had gone off to the local pub, which he was prone to do on a Tuesday night, leaving the women to themselves. After Grace helped Ida wash the dishes, a task she enjoyed because it meant company for a bit longer, Ida walked to the small two-room cottage where she and George lived at the edge of the woods. There had been a time when they all lived under one roof, but when Ida was convinced that Grace was recovering from her grief, she’d moved herself and George to the smaller cottage. Grace had refused to admit how much she hated being alone in the house because she didn’t want to intrude on Ida and George’s time alone. Now, even though Michael and Tarik were in the house with her, she felt just as alone. Not for the first time, she thought she needed a dog. At first she hadn’t wanted one because the thought of another being relying on her had been too much to bear. She could barely take care of herself.

  She slowly made her way up the stairs, exhausted even though she ha
dn’t done much that day except meet with Nigel and attend the festival committee meeting. Oh, and welcome her husband home from war.

  She paused at his door and listened. The men were talking to each other in low voices in that language she’d never heard. She moved on to her room and prepared for bed, feeling more alone than she ever had before.

  She curled onto her side and lay with her eyes wide open. As she had done every night for the past year, she lost herself in the good times. Tonight she remembered the first night that she’d looked upon Michael and felt something other than friendship.

  Her parents were hosting a small dinner party before a big ball. Michael attended with his father. His mother had died some years before, and his father had never remarried. Grace was fifteen, Michael eighteen. He looked so dashing in his scarlet military jacket, with the white sash, and white trousers, and his black hair and flashing green eyes. She’d met him before, of course, but that had been the year before, when she was just fourteen and he seventeen, and she had given him barely a thought. Now…now she was definitely thinking of him. Oh, how her heart was beating uncontrollably. Her parents allowed her to eat with them, but Michael said barely a word to her, much to her disappointment. Then they all left to go to the ball together. Except Grace. Before walking out the door, Michael looked at her over his shoulder with those beautiful green eyes and winked at her. She took the memory of that wink to bed with her that night and many more after, her schoolgirl heart inventing so many reasons for it.

  Late into the night, Grace was still awake, lost in memories of better times, when she heard Michael’s door open. Breath held, she waited, certain he would come to her. Maybe he hadn’t known how to express himself with Tarik there. Maybe, when they were alone, the real Michael would emerge. Sleeping with his arms around her would be her wish come true. Her body yearned for his touch. But the footsteps receded down the stairs, and she slumped back into her pillow, fighting tears of frustration and anger.

  —

  The next morning Michael found his wife in the glass conservatory. It was a new addition. There had never been a conservatory at the dower house. That, he remembered. Funny that long-ago memories were clearer than memories of yesterday or a week ago.

  She hadn’t heard him open the door, so he had the advantage of being able to study her discreetly. She was just as beautiful as ever, with her yellow hair. No, not yellow, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what yellow hair was called. That was the way his mind worked now. He remembered some things, while others were lost.

  She had blue eyes, but not just an ordinary blue. Hers were the light blue of a spring sky. She’d always been thin, and the last year she’d grown even more so until he was certain he could span her waist with his hands. He so desperately wanted to span her waist with his hands. He wanted to hold her close and breathe in the scent of her. And that would never, ever happen, because along with everything else he had lost in his life, he had lost his sense of smell. He would never be able to smell his wife again.

  He’d shocked her yesterday. For some reason, he hadn’t expected her not to believe it was him, and he’d been stumped by how to prove his identity. Showing her the old scar had worked, but there had been an awkwardness to their reunion. He’d been tongue-tied, knowing he had to tell her what had happened but not willing to yet.

  The words hadn’t come to him. To his disgust and frustration, that happened far more than he liked. Soon she would notice and wonder, and he would have to tell her that he had changed so drastically that even he did not recognize himself.

  His head hurt from all of his thoughts, but that was nothing new. His head hurt constantly, and there was very little to relieve it.

  Thinking about all he had to do made it ache worse. At some point he would have to confront Nigel, but for now he was content to stay in the old dower house and readjust to living a life he never thought he would have to live.

  In his heart, he knew he was procrastinating because he was frightened. It seemed he’d been frightened for a long while now. Taking over the duties of the earldom was a daunting task for anyone with full mental capacities. And he…He was not that.

  Grace glanced over her shoulder and straightened quickly in surprise. “Michael. I didn’t hear you enter.”

  “I was enjoying watching you work on your plants.” He knew he should smell flowers and fresh dirt. He imagined the smell, tried to recall it from memory.

  She looked around at the pots with various green things growing out of them. He would have been hard pressed to know their names before, so he wasn’t too concerned that he didn’t know them now.

  “This is new,” he said, indicating the conservatory with a sweep of his hand.

  “I had it built not long after I moved here.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled between them. The air was stifling, and his head was beginning to pound, but he didn’t want to move.

  “Where is Tarik?” she asked.

  “Inside.” She would want to know about Tarik, but he couldn’t explain him without explaining everything, and at the moment explanations were beyond him. He would have to lie down soon, before the headache overtook him. If Tarik were here, he would see Michael’s pain and demand that he retire.

  Grace brushed the dirt off her hands.

  “Don’t stop because of me,” he said.

  “I was finished anyway.” She put away her implements. The digging one—what was it called? Shovel. That was it. Then a few others before she slid past him and out of the conservatory. It wasn’t nearly as hot outside, and the breeze was pleasant.

  “Do you spend a lot of time in your—” The word escaped him, even though it had been in his mind not a moment ago, so he motioned to the glass house with another sweep of his hand, hoping she wouldn’t notice his lapse.

  “A fair amount.”

  They walked together to the back door of the house. He’d always liked being with Grace. She was different from the other women he’d known. She wasn’t silly or flighty. She cared about others and was soft-spoken, but woe to the person who thought her weak. He remembered the time he’d cut his wrist on the fence and how she had quickly taken control and patched him up. She’d been calm when he’d feared he would pass out.

  She would need to be strong in the weeks to come. For a moment he doubted his decision to return. The decision had been difficult. He thought it might be easier for her to believe he was dead. Easier than what he would lay upon her shoulders in the coming weeks and months. She had no doubt settled into a comfortable life here. She’d probably recovered from her grief. She had friends, he knew, because she’d always had friends. By returning, he would upset her life once again and saddle her with a husband who was not whole, who could not remember the simplest things, and who needed more care than a husband ought to need. In other words, he was a burden, and he loathed being a burden to anyone. But he especially loathed that he would be a burden to his wife. It was the husband who was supposed to take care of everyone, not the other way around. However, it was far too late to turn back now.

  She slowed her steps and he followed suit, leaning a bit more on the cane than he needed to.

  “Michael, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.” And yet he tensed, waiting for the inevitable, knowing he couldn’t avoid it forever.

  Grace glanced at the house. “When are you planning on telling Nigel that you’re…”

  “Alive?”

  She smiled. He’d always loved her smile because it reached her eyes. She smiled with her entire body. “Yes. Alive.”

  He blew out a breath. “I was hoping for a little more time. I know he needs to know, but I’d like a few more days.”

  Grace hesitated, and he still knew her enough to know there was something she wasn’t telling him.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It’s just that—”

  Tarik stepped out of the house. “Have you eaten?” he asked in Russian.

 
“Nyet.” Michael was short with Tarik because he wanted to hear the rest of what Grace had been about to say.

  Tarik was unfazed, having endured Michael’s wrath too many times in the past. “The servant has prepared your food. You must eat.”

  “The servant is named Ida,” Michael snapped.

  Grace was watching the exchange with wide eyes. Michael knew it was rude to hold a conversation in front of her in a language she didn’t understand, but for him it was easier this way.

  “Ida has food prepared,” Tarik said, unperturbed.

  “Very well.” Michael turned to Grace. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to eat.”

  Grace nodded, still looking wide-eyed. Tarik was accustomed to watching out for him, and for the most part Michael allowed it because it was easier. In the beginning he’d had only Tarik and couldn’t rely on himself to get dressed, let alone eat. Things would have to change soon, and that scared the hell out of him.

  “May I join you?” she asked.

  “Pardon?” Join him? What the hell had they been talking about? Grace was looking at him with her brows furrowed, waiting for his answer, but he didn’t know what to answer because he couldn’t remember what they had been talking about.

  Her flowers.

  The conservatory. He could remember the damn name of the damn glass building but not what a shovel was called or what they’d been discussing before Tarik interrupted them.

  “May I join you for breakfast?” Grace asked slowly. “I haven’t eaten yet, either.”

  Breakfast. She wanted to eat with him.

  “Of course,” he said, relieved that he’d remembered and frustrated that he hadn’t remembered. How the hell was he supposed to take over the earldom if he couldn’t remember a simple conversation that took place just minutes before?

  He followed Grace into the kitchen, surprised that the table had been set there instead of the dining room. Grace settled onto the bench and Michael sat opposite her.

  “We are very informal here,” Grace said. “I’ve never opened the dining room. I thought it a waste to sit all alone in there when I could just as easily eat in here with Ida and George. I hope you don’t mind.”