by Ella Edon
Outside of the coachman she had met in the village – and had seen again this evening out in front of the Inn – it was certainly the most intimate contact she had had with any man. Grace was beginning to understand why so many young women took such delight in dancing. There really was more to it than just coldly shopping for a husband the way one might shop for a cut of mutton or a new pair of boots.
On returning to their spot beside the mantel, Grace and Merope compared notes. "Did you enjoy yourself, Grace? I saw that you danced not only the Kitty Kickaway, but also the Sprigs of Laurel! You’re making me proud."
Grace laughed, feeling even more relaxed. "I’m so glad to make you proud. I’m so indebted to both you and your mother for your help in – in easing my way."
"Oh, nonsense. You are exactly the sort of girl these gatherings are meant to encourage: honest, hardworking, and pretty enough, though lacking in many chances to meet good men. My mother and I will count ourselves successful each time such a girl makes a match after attending one of our balls."
Grace nodded, a little uncertainly. Though she did not require much in the way of compliments, as some women did, she was not quite sure if she had just been somewhat insulted. Merope was certainly quite haughty and self-important, and seemed to forget that she was merely the daughter of a widowed innkeeper.
Nonetheless, Grace appreciated her help and guidance, and knew she'd be having a far worse time without it. She supposed that was worth a few instances of very faint praise.
The rest of the evening passed happily enough. Grace did manage one more dance with a third man, and so she'd be able to tell Aunt Betsey and Uncle Leonard that she had met three very polite men – even if she still didn’t remember their names – and had gotten through three dances with no more than minor missteps. And she had even enjoyed herself here and there.
She had to admit that at any other time, she would have been more excited at meeting and dancing with three different men. And she knew very well what was stopping her elation from taking off. It was the thought of the coachman, waiting out front with the earl's landau – the man named Adam Wheeler.
There was such a difference about him. She couldn’t say exactly what it was, only that the three men she had danced with had seemed plain, nice, and dull compared to Adam. He was strong and alive, and seemed to have the same effect on her whenever she was anywhere near him.
The way he stood so tall and proud, the way his hazel eyes twinkled, the way he looked so intently at her when he spoke . . . all she knew was that he was far, far different from any of the men she had spoken with, or even touched hands and danced with, here tonight.
Grace had entirely forgotten that the earl himself was not even here. After all of her aunt and uncle's meticulous preparations, she hadn’t had the chance to meet him. Well, perhaps next time . . . but she also knew that meeting the earl's coachman was as close as Grace Miller was ever likely to get to the earl himself.
Far better for her to concentrate on meeting the simple, honest tradesmen and farmers from right here in Birdwell, who were actually attending this series of subscription balls, and who might actually be willing to be a husband to her.
* * *
At last, the ball was over. The musicians carefully packed their instruments into wooden boxes and leather cases, and those who had spent the whole evening dancing up to the very last began to file outside.
"Mrs. Robbins. And Merope!" said Grace, as the three of them finally walked out of the ballroom. They were nearly the last to leave. "I want to thank you again for all your help. I did have a lovely time!"
"Good, good," said Mrs. Robbins, patting Grace's arm. "I’m sure your next one will be even more successful."
"I do look forward to it!" said Grace, and meant it.
"Next full moon," said Merope. "You have the month to prepare whatever you need – another gown, a bit of dance practice. Now that you know what it's like, you will know just what to do between now and then!"
"I certainly will," said Grace. The three of them stepped outside onto the walkway. Grace closed her eyes and breathed deep of the cool refreshing air – just in time to see the Mr. Clarke and his very elegant wife step up into the earl's carriage.
"Goodbye! Goodbye!" called Mrs. Clarke, waving her silk-gloved arm to the little crowd as though she were the queen of the realm. As the carriage pulled away, she kept calling to the crowd to the very last. "So wonderful! We cannot wait to see you again! Goodbye! Goodbye . . . "
"Ah, Grace, there you are," said Uncle Leonard. "Have a good time?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! Lovely."
"Good," said Aunt Betsey. "Then come with us, back to the room over the shop, where you can put your feet up and tell us everything that happened before lying down for a nice long sleep on the pallet I've made for you."
"That sounds perfect," sighed Grace, realizing how tired she was after the long, exciting, and very tense evening.
They all moved down the walkway and then prepared to step down to the cobblestone street, which was still busy with the last of the horses and small vehicles pulling up to take the guests home to their countryside cottages and farmhouses.
Grace reached down and took off her slippers. "I don't want to risk getting them dirty. And it feels wonderful right now to be free of them, for they rub, pretty as they are!"
Holding the slippers under one arm, Grace gathered up her long yellow skirts and stepped down to the street. As she walked with her aunt and uncle to Fabrics, Feathers, & Fineries, she glanced back towards the north – just in time to see the earl's carriage disappear into the night.
But to Grace, it was not the carriage that was leaving. It was Adam, for he was, of course, at the reins. She was certain that she would know his tall, slim, straight form anywhere, and even from the walkway in front of the Inn she had recognized him up on the box with his top hat making him seem even taller.
"Good night, Adam," she whispered. It was going to be far more difficult than she had expected to simply forget about the tall and handsome coachman.
* * *
Elam slammed his large wooden cup down on the table. "Enough," he said to Reuben, with a loud belch. "Enough for now. Come on. Let's walk down the street on our way out and get a look at all the ladies dressed in their finest, in hopes of catching better men than we are. Come on!"
They made their way out of the public house, both of them somewhat in their cups, but not so far gone that they could not easily walk back to Feathering Park even in the dark. They walked out into the street and looked toward the Inn, hoping, as he'd said, to catch of glimpse of a few of the prettiest young women and have a nice little memory to take home with them.
Reuben nudged Elam hard with one elbow. "There's one, right there!" he whispered, too loudly. "Bright yellow dress. Walking across the street – "
Elam pushed him back with an elbow, hard enough to make him quiet down. But the old man was right. There was indeed a pretty enough young thing in a yellow gown, fairly glowing in the torchlight. Rather tall, thin, even a little gangly – dark hair – strong-looking –
Frowning, Elam stared at her as long as he dared, studying her appearance. She seemed familiar to him, though he knew all the young women in Birdwell and in all its little surrounding homes. He hadn’t seen this girl before.
Yet he could swear that he had.
She walked with an older couple, who seemed to be her parents. "Here, Grace," said the woman, stepping up to the walkway. "Give me your slippers. Uncle Leonard will help you up."
Grace.
Suddenly, Elam grabbed hold of Reuben's arm. "What?" said Reuben, blinking. "I didn't say a word!"
"Grace," said Elam. "That's Grace Miller. It must be."
"Who?" asked Reuben, still trying to figure out what Elam was looking at.
Impatiently, Elam pushed Reuben's arm away. "Miller. All of 'em – father, mother, daughter, two boys – they all worked at Northcliff. That's where I was 'fore I came down here, three mo
nths ago. Mr. Clarke got married, said his wife wanted extra vehicles, and so they needed another coachman – "
He stopped himself. "She sure does look different. But what's she doing out here? And all dressed up like somebody thinks she ought to be presented at court?"
Reuben just frowned again, trying to get a closer look at Grace. "Who is she? Tradesman's wife?"
"Huh. She's no wife that I know of. She's a coachman's daughter. Mother's a cook. The girl is naught but a servant herself. Nothing but a maid-of-all-work up at old Northcliff."
"Doesn't look it tonight. Not in that dress. You sure?"
Elam watched as Grace and the older couple went into the shop and closed the door. In a moment, the glow of lanternlight appeared in the room upstairs. "I'm sure," he muttered. "That's Grace Miller. And now I want to know where her father is. I remember very well how it was with Cecil Miller."
"I don't know no one named Cecil," offered Reuben, trying to be helpful.
Elam ignored him. "He's a big part of why I had to leave my place at Northcliff. It was quiet up there and paid better. No such nonsense as this 'assembly ball' to drive for." Elam frowned deeply, grinding his teeth. "Lost me a good place, he did."
"Never heard of 'im," Reuben said again. "If he was workin' somewhere out here, I'd know."
"He wasn't workin' last I saw him, either. He'd ruined himself too far for that."
"So, maybe he's dead."
"Huh. Maybe. Either way, I want to know why his daughter is parading herself like a little canary down the streets of Birdwell and acting like her father's pride. She'll be looking for a husband out here. And if she finds one, he won't know what she really is . . . unless somebody is kind enough to tell him."
"What do you care about it, Elam? Why do you care who some girl marries?"
"Because – because with a father like that, she's lying about who and what her family really is. That family was the same one that ruined me. She don't deserve no fine husband. She don't deserve nothin' at all. And neither does her family."
Chapter Fifteen
Riding To Market In A Governess Car
Quite early the next morning, Grace woke up on the very comfortable pallet Aunt Betsey had made for her on the floor of the shop's upstairs room. She got dressed in her usual old boots and rough skirt with shirt and apron, and then slipped outside while her aunt and uncle still slept in their bed.
Grace hurried home, down the road which led out of Birdwell, walking as quickly as she could. It was quiet and damp and beautiful this morning, with just a little thin sunlight peeking through the high grey clouds. Her mother was already out on the small front lawn of Applewood Cottage, anxiously waiting for her.
"Grace! Oh, I cannot wait to hear all the tales! Every one of them!" Her mother ran to Grace, kissed her on the cheek, and led her to the bench under the tree in front of the house. "So, tell me, tell me! Did you meet the earl?"
"I'm sorry, Mother. I know you will be so disappointed. But no, I didn’t meet the earl." Grace sat down, breathing deep of the cool fresh air and the sweet scent of the dew-covered grass.
Her mother's face fell. "But why not? Were you not introduced? I thought Mrs. Robbins – "
"He wasn't there. The earl did not attend. It was said that – that he does not enjoy such things very much."
"Does not enjoy – but the ball was held by his mother, so that he could find a wife! What does enjoyment have to do with that?"
"Well, very little, I’m sure," Grace said, laughing. "But the ball – the whole series of three – was not just for him. The message was that the earl insisted it go on for everyone's enjoyment."
"And – did you enjoy it?"
"Oh, yes, I certainly did! The music – the dancing – I danced three times, Mother, with a different man each time!”
"Now, that is what I want to hear! And will you be seeing any of them again?"
Grace paused. "Well – I don't think so. They said nothing about that."
"But who were they? Where do they live? What sort of work— "
"Mother, I don't know. I didn't – I mean, I'm afraid I don't know their names."
"You don't know their names!" Patience stood up, aghast. "You mean you were not introduced?"
"Of course, I was. Either Mrs. Robbins or Merope made sure to introduce me each time. I guess I just . . . don't remember."
"Oh, Grace, really! You had best remember the next time. Most of all, you had best remember why you are there and remember the money being spent on your pretty dresses and little shoes, so you could go to the ball in the first place!"
Reality began to return. "Of course. You’re right. I think it was just all the excitement. The next time, I’ll pay closer attention to each of the men I dance with."
"Well, that's the spirit, Grace," her mother said, sitting down again. "It's a disappointment that Earl Worthington was not there, of course, but don't give up! Your aunt and uncle and I will get you to whatever parties and social events we can. You will find the right man to marry. I'm sure of it!"
Grace could only sigh, not looking forward to this. She wondered how she would ever get through the rest of the summer . . . and wondered whether it might, by chance, include another meeting with a very tall and handsome coachman.
* * *
The day passed with Grace working as hard as she ever had, if not harder, to make up for the tasks she had missed the day before. Once again, she was a mere servant, though the images and feelings and sounds and scents she had experienced at the ball would remain with her forever.
She very much hoped that it would not be the only such night that she would ever have, but Grace was well aware that for most servant girls, even one was far too much to wish for.
The following morning, Grace was happy to pick up the crude woven basket by the door, along with the shilling her mother gave her, and walk into town to see about buying a few things. It was the twice-weekly market day in Birdwell and she was quite looking forward to going back and seeing the town again. Though it would never seem the same to her after seeing it as a lady attending a ball, instead of merely as a servant at work.
The spring day was beautiful and right now, as she walked along with the basket, she wasn't really thinking of the dancing, or the men, or even her pretty new gown. It was Adam who stayed on her mind, so tall and handsome and witty and kind . . . and he was the one she wanted to see again, even though her family would feel nothing but betrayal if she did.
If she was wise, she would forget Adam Wheeler, and make it a point never to see him or speak to him again.
If she was wise.
* * *
Striding along the road with her basket, Grace heard quick little hoofbeats approaching from behind. She stepped over to get out of the way, and then the hoofbeats slowed.
"Good morning, Miss Miller," said a deep and cheerful voice – and there he was, once again sitting in the little governess car behind a pony.
"Good – good morning, Mr. Wheeler," she answered, with a shy smile that she could not suppress, no matter how she tried.
"Market day, is it?" he asked, and Grace nodded. Already more people were taking to the road on foot and in carts.
"It is, indeed. I'm to look for a few things for the family – dried meat and fish, if I can find it," she said.
"Well, then! I know just the place to look for that. They'll be set up across from the church, on the grass at the far end of town. I'll show you."
"Oh, Mr. Wheeler, you don't have to – "
"Of course, I don't. But I will. You're new to Birdwell. You've never been here on a market day, have you?"
"Why, no! My mother has been going because someone has to stay with – I mean, I couldn't, now could I, since I'm new here!" She began to giggle, mostly from feeling so flustered at actually seeing him again before she even got to town.
But he began to laugh, too. "I'd like very much for you to simply call me Adam," he said. "I hope you will."
"All righ
t," she whispered, with another shy smile. "Adam, then." All she could see were his sparkling hazel eyes beneath soft brows and warm smooth skin . . . and so, to distract herself, she glanced towards the little bay pony.
"Who is your friend, here?" asked Grace. "This is a different one from the other time, isn't it?"
"It is indeed," said Adam. "This is Woodlark, from Dartmoor. He'd be hauling tin out of the mines right now if a friend of mine hadn't sent him out to me. To Worthington."
Grace looked again at the pony, whose back came up about as high as her waist. He was a shaggy red-brown in color with a black mane and tail. "He's beautiful."
