22. In Which Grace Receives Confirmation of Her Condition

London

May 19, 1822

The day after Grace returned home, she awoke to a sensation she’d been half-anticipating : nausea.

She spent the morning casting her accounts. Her stomach settled by afternoon, but she decided to stay in bed. She wanted time alone to get used to the idea of being with child.

As she lay there, her mind picked over the events of the past week. As though sorting pages into chapters. With the hope that this would make it feel easier to close the book.

Then her mother burst in, confirmed that her daughter had spent the morning revisiting her breakfast, and calmly declared that a special license would be obtained the following day, so that a wedding might occur within the week.

Grace was not surprised.

She rose from bed, washed her face, pulled her hair back, put on the only gray dress she owned, and went to speak with her father.

She expected to find him at his desk, but he was on the floor of his study, sorting stacks of books. He looked up as she entered, and she saw a quick evolution of feeling across his face. Her mother had informed him of her condition, clearly.

“May I join you?” He nodded for her to take the settee, but she sat on the floor with him.

“I’ve run out of room,” he explained, gesturing to his over-full bookshelves. “I must part with some. Else I shall have to stop buying new ones. Pull out any you think poorly written and chuck them on that chair.”

Grace appreciated having something to do with her hands. They made light chatter, her father inviting her to recount the steps she took to unlock the earl’s cipher.

“Why do you suppose Bexley did it?” he asked. “Terrific amount of work, putting all of one’s notes into a code. Was there something that required discretion?”

There was, of course, in his diary, but nothing unusual in any of the logs of field notes. “I think he simply enjoyed it. He liked to challenge himself.”

“I suppose, with a certain type of mind, one must keep it occupied so it cannot wander into the wrong territory. Your mother has a mind like that.” He cast her a glance. “As do you.”

It was as good a segue as any. “You’re right. And so I must ask you for something. I do not anticipate that you will like it.” Now, he looked braced. May as well dive in. “I have been thinking about Arabella’s betrothal.”

Grace’s parents had been present at the betrothal dinner, so her father was aware that Arabella had fled before the dessert course, into a storm, to escape her wedding.

“Which piece of it will we be discussing?” her father asked. “The one in which she escaped into the night, or in which ultimately, they did marry, and are happy together?”

“Are you aware of her reasons for fleeing?” Her father shrugged, inviting her to tell him. “It was mostly down to being an artist. She thought if she married him, she’d need to give it up.”

“Well, having seen her art, I’m not surprised. Bit risqué,” her father said, mildly.

“Yes, original, isn’t it? She had been studying painting in secret. Slipping away at night to a studio.”

This was news to her father. “Clever of her to manage that.”

“She had an accomplice.”

He waited for Grace to say more, but she only looked at him. Until he realized what she meant. “Ah,” he said, with a shake of the head, as if to say, you do manage to get yourself mixed up in things. “Well, you’ve always been a loyal friend. Though it must be said, you did take a risk for her.”

“Yes. Because I knew Arabella would wilt and die if she wasn’t able to follow her heart.”

Her father blew out a conflicted breath. “Grace ... there are things I can do for you. What I can, I do with delight. But allowing you to end your engagement, while you carry the man’s—”

“I am not asking for that. I will not ask it.”

“It sounds as though you’re threatening to run away.”

“Well. I do think I could pull it off.” She patted his hand, to reassure him she would not. “But doing something so rash would affect others.” It would harm the prospects of her sisters, she knew, if she caused a scandal of that magnitude. “No. I shall be mar ried, soon as we can manage it.”

“Good,” he said, and picked up a few books. He gazed at their spines, then set them back down, one by one. He was obviously wrestling with a thought.

Finally, he turned to her, concern on his face. “Now explain why you do not wish to marry St. George. You have me worried he’s some sort of menace.”

She felt a surge of affection for her father. “Oh, don’t worry yourself. He’s a gentleman. Well,” she amended dryly, “more or less. I mean to say ... he is not a worrisome sort. It is only that he is ... not quite my sort.”

Her father nodded. “I had that thought, when he came to ask for your hand. We spoke at length, he and I.” He gave her a look of real sadness, then. “My daughters deserve titles. And to live in the style to which I’ve made them accustomed. And , they deserve a man who is a match.”

“Well.” She could not put a positive spin on St. George’s limitations. But hearing her father speak this way did give her hope that he would not balk at what she was about to ask. “You’ve brought us to the reason for this conversation. I need you to help me engage in subterfuge.”

“I see. Are we to become highwaymen together, at last?”

She smiled, but her answer quickly diffused all the mirth. “He wants me to stop writing to the mathematicians. They are men and it is not becoming.”

Her father clearly did not expect this turn. “That seems an overreaction. I shall speak with him—”

“He thinks you mad for allowing it, so I do not imagine it a good use of breath. He is, perhaps, old-fashioned . Certainly, he has strong feelings regarding a wife—how she ought to be, in every area of life.” Grace had tried to keep the summation general, but she could see that her father got the gist. He seemed to take it seriously; he’d gone pensive.

“What I would like to suggest,” she said, brighter, “is that you correspond on my behalf, and send me the content of their letters inside your own. I know it will be very annoying to wade through it all, but I cannot do without it, Papa. I don’t mean to sound dramatic. I simply won’t ... feel myself. So I must ask you to allow me to be in your debt.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. He seemed to be weighing several possibilities.

But the n he smiled and told her that of course, he would send the letters on in his own hand. “I’ll resist solving the maths for you,” he joked. They both knew it was beyond him.

He seem ed to want to say more. But instead, he waved at the sea of books. “I must be a sentimental man. I cannot part with any of these. I shall build new shelves.”

“I approve,” Grace said. “Thank you for understanding, Papa. I am lucky to have you.”

He gave her an odd look, then. “You came back from Bexley so calm.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will pass.” She leaned in to kiss her father’s cheek before leaving.

His eyes narrowed. “You’re quite warm. Go to bed. I’ll have something sent up.”

She assured him she felt fine, thanked him again, and exited.

It wasn’t until she started up the staircase that she realized she did feel genuinely wretched. She sent an ironic thank you in St. George’s direction for indisposing her so unpleasantly, and headed to her rooms.

Grace had offered no resistance to a quick wedding, but her body seemed to have its own stance. By evening, she was too weak to lift her head as she violently retched into a pan on the floor. The edges of her vision sparkled; her ears rang. Her fever climbed so high that a doctor was called.

When the doctor arrived, he was wearing a sailor’s cap, robe and sandals, and that is how she realized she was quite floridly hallucinating.

The fever pressed her into the bed, unable to move, as the ceiling above her gave way to the night sky, vibrating with stars. She heard Luke beside her on the bed, murmuring names of constellations, too softly for her to make out. She wanted to turn to him, but she couldn’t.

And then, the black swallowed her.

Grace’s fever broke late the following day. She felt thirsty and groggy but managed to sit up. Her mother sat by the bed, mug of broth at the ready. The slight, auburn-and - silver-haired woman was brisk as she tended to Grace—when was her mother not brisk?—but obviously relieved.

“Did you go dancing in the ice-cold rain at Bexley’s?” Mrs. Chetwood asked, tart. She wasn’t all that different from h er sister Amelia, when it came to judging Grace’s silliness. “You managed to make yourself exceedingly unwell.”

Grace took the mug. The salty broth hit her tongue and she gulped it down hungrily, to her mother’s reserved approval. “There was pressure to get it done,” Grace admitted, clearing her cracked throat. “I did not sleep or eat quite properly.”

“You did not think to take very good care of yourself, as you were increasing?”

Grace was not thinking of much beyond the cipher and Luke Ashburton, but she would not say that. “I apologize for worrying you, Mama.”

Her mother nodded. She said nothing. It took Grace a moment to realize what the expression on her face was.

She was angry.

“I had a conversation with your father,” she finally said. “He was distressed about your wedding. He seems to believe you will be miserable.”

“I won’t be,” Grace said quickly. “And I’m feeling better. I think we could still have a wedding this week.”

“Lovely,” her mother said, unsmiling. “I wonder if you’ve noticed that your monthlies arrived last night, while you were feverish.”

Grace was stunned. She looked down, and realized her night rail and the linens had all been changed while she was sleeping.

“Your father feels the situation is different, with no child.” Her mother sighed. “I am not convinced. St. George compromised you. It is his duty. If you were to sever the engagement, harm to your reputation and future prospects would be unavoidable. And to be frank, it all rather confuses me, as only weeks ago you were speaking giddily of the man. You wished to marry him, and the two of you were quickly headed in that direction.”

“We were.”

“What changed?”

“I got to know him better.”

Mrs. Chetwood contemplated her daughter. Then sighed a bone-weary sigh. “Have I ever mentioned that I very nearly married a duke?”

Grace felt her brows shoot up in surprise.

“Charming as a summer’s day, drowning in money—not terribly unlike St. George. My friends were murderously envious.” She allowed herself a small smile. “And then I met your father. No title, no name, only beginning in business, living with his grandparents. And yet.”

“I did not know,” Grace said.

“I have never regretted it. My mother, however, regretted it until the day she died. She never forgave me.” She fixed Grace with a look that held both disappointment and understanding. “But we cannot always please our mothers.”

“No. Try as we might.”

“Was there another man, Grace?”

Grace coughed in surprise.

Her mother awaited a response, mouth a horizontal line.

Grace considered hedging her answer. But found she could not abide the idea of lying about the best and worst thing that had ever happened to her. “Yes, there was.”

“Oh good lord ,” her mother blurted. But then, she took a breath, and continued with less judgment in her tone. “Is his name Luke?”

Grace felt herself color. “Yes. How did—”

“You spoke when you were feverish. At Bexley?” Grace nodded. “And who is Ashburton?”

“Ashburton is ... Luke.”

“They are one person ?” Unexpectedly, her mother laughed aloud. “The one you told to go directly to the devil is the same man you told you would always love?”

Grace slid down into the covers. “Oh, God.”

“When on earth did you find time to break a cipher?” Her mother’s expression shifted rapidly between amusement and consternation. “So, what is he, this Ashburton?” she asked. “Is he a street sweeper? Barkeep? Stable hand?”

“He is a scientist. You’ve probably read his book about moths.”

Her mother thought for a moment. And then her eyes abruptly lit. “Luke Ashburton— On Winged Species ?” Grace nodded. Her mother looked taken aback. “I did read it. It was beautiful.” She slanted a thoughtful look to Grace. “Now, that is an unusually intelligent man.”

“Indeed.”

“Isn’t his father some sort of—”

“Baron, yes.”

“First son?”

“Third.”

“Still. Far better than terminating your engagement and simply thrusting you back into society—the ton would eat you alive—so we ought to discuss–”

“Luke Ashburton is betrothed to another woman.”

Grace’s mother did not tend toward large outward reactions, so Grace knew she’d reached her limit when she heavily sat back into the chair, staring at her daughter.

The silence stretched.

Grace finally broke it. “I would nonetheless like to sever my engagement to St. George.”

“Is there a third man? Someone available?” Her mother asked, only partly joking.

“There is no one. Nevertheless, I would like to do it, and face whatever consequences come.” Her mother said nothing. Grace added, quieter, “If I’m honest, I’m less disturbed by those than I am by disappointing you. I know it is not what you wish for me.”

That seemed to frustrate her mother. “I did not think it was what you wished for yourself —”

“I’ve changed,” Grace said. And because her mother’s face betrayed oceans of disappointment, she added, “I’m sorry.”

“As am I. I have spent your lifetime sorry, Grace.” The words were harsh, but her mother’s tone was loving. “Sorry that you are so spirited and curious and odd. One wants to protect one’s children. I cannot, with you. I rarely could when you were small, and now ... hopeless. You are not built for a conventional life. I find it excruciating. Any mother would.”

“If nothing else,” Grace said, gently, “we could apply logic. if I am built for the unconventional, might it not follow that I shall be happy in it?”

“It might follow. It might not. One may hope.” Her mother rose, brisk. The conversation had, as far as she was concerned, run its frustrating course.

Then, the woman hesitated. All at once, her expression was tender. “The way you were speaking to him, in your fever ... I am sorry it cannot be.”

Grace expected for tears to well up and spill. But the sadness was deeper, more still. A permanent crack in her bedrock.

Her mother left to go speak with her father.