The Devil Takes a Bride. Julia London
be you?” she asked Hattie.
The poor woman looked so shocked that Grace almost laughed. “Me!” Hattie said, glancing around the room. “I’m no lady’s maid, mu’um. I do the cleaning.”
“It’s not a science, Hattie. It’s really quite simple. Help button me up and pin up my hair. That sort of thing.”
“I...I don’t know, mu’um,” Hattie said. Her neck was turning red with her fluster.
“I shall speak to Mr. Cox,” Grace said confidently. She would not allow Hattie’s fluster to dissuade her. She liked the small woman. And she certainly didn’t want a girl from the village who would be as fearful of Blackwood Hall as Grace. She needed someone who understood this house and its master.
Grace put her arm around the woman’s bony shoulders and squeezed. “It will be quite all right, you’ll see. I’m very good at persuading gentlemen to my viewpoint.” She smiled, and thought the better of pointing out that the predicament in which she found herself just now was all the result of having persuaded a gentleman to meet her in the dark.
When Hattie had gone, Grace locked the door again, changed into her nightclothes, and when she’d finished her toilette, she climbed into the four-poster bed. But she couldn’t sleep; every creak, every moan, was Merryton coming to claim his conjugal rights. She closed her eyes, tried not to imagine him looming over her, his expression cold, his eyes shuttered. She tried not to imagine the number of lonely days and nights stretching before her in this house, with no society, no one to talk to, no one to advise her.
What a shambles you’ve made, Grace Elizabeth.
Thank you, but I am acutely aware, she silently responded to herself.
* * *
SHE AWOKE THE next morning feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all. She relinquished the last bit of pretense at mourning garb—it seemed ridiculous, given all that had happened. And it wasn’t as if anyone in society would see her here. There were far better things to gossip about now, weren’t there?
She dressed in a brown gown with a high neck and long sleeves, a somber color for her somber mood. She looked at the clock—it seemed that her eye found it every quarter hour. It was too early for breakfast, too early to walk. Grace decided to use the time to write Honor. She went into the sitting room that adjoined her bedroom and looked around. There was a pair of chairs before the hearth, the seats covered in the same chintz as the settee. Up against one long window was the writing desk Grace had seen yesterday. She opened the drawers, found vellum and ink and sat down.
My dearest Mrs. Easton, I assume this letter finds you well enough. You have succeeded in shocking me, as I am certain I have shocked you. I should like to think you’ve found your happiness in your foolishness, for I have found nothing but misery in mine. His lordship is aloof and somber, and he does not enjoy the slightest bit of conversation.
I have arrived at Blackwood Hall, and find it quite grim. There is no society, no one whom I may take in my confidence. The maid tells me the earl rarely leaves this place and I fear I shall never look upon the faces of my mother or my sisters again. I have never felt quite so alone or so foolish. You must advise me, Honor. Tell me how to bear it.
Before she knew it, Grace had filled two pages, front and back. She folded them together, sealed and addressed them and put it in her pocket to give to Mr. Cox. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was time for breakfast and, with trepidation, began her way downstairs.
Cox was in the corridor of the main floor and bowed when he saw her. “Shall I direct you to the breakfast room?”
“If you would,” Grace said. She followed him in a new direction, past more blank walls, more empty consoles. He opened the door of a room, and stepped aside to allow her entrance.
The room was small, the drapes pulled back to reveal a bright day. At a small round table in the center of the room, she saw one place setting, a vase with a pair of roses and a pot of tea. There was no evidence of Merryton, no evidence that anyone else would be dining here, save her.
She looked at Mr. Cox. “Where is his lordship?”
“He did not take breakfast this morning. Tea?”
“I will pour it, thank you,” Grace said, mildly annoyed that Merryton didn’t at least bother to greet her.
“The bellpull is just here,” Cox said, gesturing to the pull beside the door. He went out.
Grace looked at the sideboard, laden with enough food to feed four people, much less one. She walked to the window and looked out. The breakfast room overlooked a vast garden. The hedges had been planted into four series of scrolls, and at the center of each were rosebushes in full bloom. At the center of the garden was a large fountain. Beyond the garden, she could see a small lake, the path to it mowed and lined with more roses.
She helped herself to some toast and a spoonful of eggs, but in spite of scarcely having eaten in the past twenty-four hours, even that bit of food felt more than she could possibly choke down.
That exasperated Grace, too. She had always possessed a healthy appetite. She would not exist like this—she refused.
A thought came to her on a sudden wave of determination. She would not wander about from room to room, casting about for anything to occupy her. Merryton could despise her as he wished, but she would not stand to be cast out of her own life by what had happened. What was it her mother had once said? One is happy when one learns how to face up to life. Of course, her mother had been talking about a tiff between Grace and Prudence, the reason long forgotten. But her point was that each person made his or her own happiness.
Well, then, Grace would make her own happiness, because she refused to live any other way. No more moping about. No more living in dread.
When Cox returned to clear her dishes away—her toast and eggs still on the plate, her tea only half drunk—Grace stood up. “Mr. Cox, I should like to have Hattie as my lady’s maid, if you please.”
Cox’s eyes widened slightly; he put two hands under her plate, as if he feared he might drop it having just heard that news. “But Hattie is a chambermaid, madam. You would prefer a proper lady’s maid, I should think.”
“I cannot imagine there is a proper lady’s maid in Ashton Down. Hattie is sensible, she knows Blackwood Hall and I prefer her.”
She saw the apple of Mr. Cox’s throat bob as he swallowed down the news. “I shall speak to his lordship straightaway.”
“Oh. Is he here?” she asked, looking at the door.
“No, madam. He has gone out for the day.”
Merryton had gone out and left her here? Alone? One day after she had wed him? Grace couldn’t imagine why that would surprise her, but it did seem rather rude. “Very well,” she said, lifting her chin. “Then I suppose I shall spend this day acquainting myself with Blackwood Hall. Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Cox?”
“To me?” he asked, startled. “Yes, of course, my lady, whatever you wish.”
“That is what I wish,” she said. “And, if you would, see that this letter is posted?” she asked, and withdrew from her pocket the letter she had written to Honor and held it out to him.
“Will there be anything else, madam?” Cox asked.
Yes. She would like to rewind the past fortnight and do it all again. But as that was beyond Cox’s abilities, she said no, gave him a bright smile and walked out the door.
She moved down the main corridor to the foyer, paused there and looked around her. Her eye fell to the crystal vases filled with red roses. The vases were set atop half-moon consoles. There were four of them, two by two, each set in perfect mirror image across the foyer by the other one, all of them sporting identical vases. Each vase had exactly eight red roses.
Grace absently fingered one of the roses in the vase. It was drooping a little, and she guessed it had been cut