Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

N ever, in all her years, had Grace imagined she would be counting the hours until she could escape The Willows. But then, between her father's grim censure and the boys' reproaches, she felt as if someone had painted a T for Traitor on her breast.

In the two days since her betrothal, gloom had overtaken her as well, and she knew, with sudden certainty, that ‘home' would never be the same.

She peered down at the newspaper she'd been trying to distract herself with in the study, but even the news of revolution spreading through the continent and unrest fomenting in England couldn't distract her from her own troubles.

There was a problem with perceiving the situation with her family clearly, instead of through a haze of self-deception. She couldn't unsee the consequences of her father's second marriage and feign ignorance.

Difficult as her father's anger and her brothers' heartache was to witness, Helen's enthusiasm was hardest to bear, as if new gowns and the title of viscountess could sweeten the bitterest draught. Her stepmother's eagerness to stamp her own wishes on this wedding made the pain of Mama's absence more acute.

"If only you were here," Grace whispered to herself. "You'd know just what to do."

But her mother was gone and ‘home' would never be hers again.

"Lady Grace?" a mournful voice called through the closed door. Pevensey, the old butler as grief-stricken as everyone else.

A spark of temper fired in Grace. "Yes," she said more sharply than intended. They were preparing for her wedding, not her funeral, for pity's sake.

"The Viscount Everdene has unexpectedly come to call."

"Send him in," she said, stung by that slight disapproval in Pevensey's tone.

Lucien strode in and suddenly the entire room seemed brighter. She almost flung the paper onto the table at the sight of him, wanting to spring from the chair into his arms. "Lucien." His name felt so right, and for the first time that morning, she felt able to breathe.

He crossed to her, scooped up her hand and kissed it. "Are you quite well, my dear? You look rather pale." He examined her face then looked her in the eye. "I take it, your family's mood regarding our betrothal has not changed?"

"Let us just say that it's lovely to see anyone who isn't scowling at me."

"I think you should reserve judgement until I apprise you of the reason for my call," he said dryly. "I bring news you may not welcome."

Her stomach sank. Was it possible someone had thrown up an impediment to their wedding? Had he reconsidered? And if he did…She couldn't bear the thought. "What news?" she asked, wary.

"In light of our betrothal, my mother has voiced a desire to know you better. Hence, she would very much like to accompany you and your stepmother to London to select your trousseau. I understand this might pose an inconvenience to you. Should you agree to include her?—"

"No!" Grace cried.

He looked taken aback by her vehemence. "I will tell her your plans are already set. Perhaps you could call on her for tea, instead? She had hoped to invite you and your stepmother stay with her in our townhouse on Curzon Street."

"You misunderstand me! Your mother's presence would be no inconvenience at all! We—I would love to stay with her. In fact, it would be a relief."

"Indeed?"

"Helen suggested we stay in London with her friend, Mrs. Kemble. That would have been pure torture! She is an insufferable, bitter…" Grace flushed. "Forgive me, my lord. Truth is, I cannot wait to leave for London. I only hope that by the time I return home, this tempest has calmed down."

Home…she felt a twinge at the word. The Willows didn't feel like home, not anymore. From the peacock wallpaper to the constant flutter of Helen's drama, all of the undercurrents Grace had done her best to gloss over became more glaring with every day that passed.

Lucien fixed that piercing gaze on her. "Has it been very bad?"

"I am not used to being the subject of disapproval. It has given me a most uncomfortable glimpse as to what my brother Avery endures."

"Hmm." Lucien crossed to where she'd left newspapers she'd been reading. He gazed down at the etching of a factory with an angry crowd outside. "It happens that I have business in the city as well. Perhaps I will join your party, at least for some of the time. My mother insists I be on hand to take you to Gunter's to eat cherry ices when necessary. She informs me that trousseau shopping is quite exhausting work."

Grace managed to laugh. "You have no idea—especially with my stepmother involved. Please, tell the countess I remember her fondly from childhood. I know Mama liked her very much." A lump formed in Grace's throat. "Lady Ravenscroft's company will be the closest I can come to having Mama with me. Thank you for this, Lucien."

He looked up from the newspaper. "These plans are all my mother's. I have nothing to do with this arrangement—save providing ices when necessary."

The countess greeted Grace with motherly warmth as their trunks were loaded into the Harcourt traveling coach. She linked her arm through Grace's as the two women walked toward the elegant equipage. "To think when your mother and I paired you and Lucien up for dancing—who could have imagined that that you would make a match all these years later?" A dimple appeared in her soft cheek. "I seem to remember you stomping on his toes from time to time…we will not say on purpose."

"It was on purpose," Grace confessed, with a teasing nod toward her betrothed who was issuing orders to the coachman. She lowered her voice, leaning in. "But he deserved it. He looked so put out when he had to dance with me."

The countess laughed, and Lucien looked over his shoulder, startled, as if the sound was far too rare.

A shadow crossed the countess's face as she watched her son. "I wish, above all things, for my children to be happy and loved. With Lucien, I feared—" She caught Grace's hand and squeezed it. "Yet, here you are," she whispered, her voice thick.

Grace's own throat ached with emotion. While it was not the same as having Mama with her, from the moment Grace saw the gentle countess who had once been her mother's dear friend, she'd felt a link with those precious times of her childhood.

Those halcyon days before the rift between their families, before Mama's illness and death had darkened Grace's world, reminding her of a time she had not felt encumbered with the cares of everyone at The Willows. When she'd felt free. Happy and loved…

How could she tell this woman with her hope-filled eyes, that this marriage was a business arrangement? How any hope of love and happiness was a complete unknown for this bride and groom, considering the terms they'd agreed to?

Feeling an awkward silence that needed to be filled, she was glad when Helen suddenly scurried toward them, beaming as she addressed the countess. "I cannot tell you how very grateful we are that you wish to accompany and host us on our trip. We shall have such a wonderful time. Isn't that right, Grace?"

"Wonderful," Grace said, pasting a matching smile on her face.

Grace peered up at Raven's Court, the elegant townhouse on Curzon Street. The fa?ade was the color of terracotta, trimmed in crisp white, the door dark green. A black iron gate and brick walls divided it from the other, similar structures that marched up the street.

To think…this would be her home when she was in London from now on. As such, the staff gathered to greet at her, their intense scrutiny making her feel a bit like one of Bennet's forest creatures being examined beneath a magnifier. Doubtless they were wondering what their new mistress would be like.

It made the marriage seem real in a way it had not before.

The countess and maids saw to Helen, while the housekeeper, Mrs. Brumby—a stern-faced matron who seemed reluctant to surrender her ring of keys to a new mistress—showed Grace about.

The rooms were pleasant, yet with nothing personal to show who Lucien Harcourt was. At last, Mrs. Brumby led her upstairs, in the opposite direction the other guests had gone. At the farthest end of the corridor, she opened a door and ushered Grace inside. The furnishings were simple, a large four-poster bed with pale blue curtains, a dressing table and escritoire tucked beneath a window. A single chair with Prussian-blue cushions beside the fireplace.

"This is to be your chamber, now and in the future." Mrs. Brumby's mouth pinched with a hint of disapproval as she eyed the door that led to the adjoining chamber. "The master ordered that you be placed here rather than with the other ladies."

The notion was a trifle unsettling. No wonder Mrs. Brumby regarded Grace with a touch of censure. Whatever could Lucien be thinking lodging Grace here? Did he plan to avail himself of that door even before they were wed? Her cheeks burned at the thought.

Mrs. Brumby must have sensed her discomfort. "If you object to these quarters, my lady, I can have the maids move you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brumby." Lucien's deep voice came from the corridor as he strode inside and joined them. "My future viscountess is not one to indulge in such missish nonsense. You may go. Close the door behind you."

"As you wish, my lord." The woman dipped a stiff curtsey, the keys at her waist jangling as she left. Grace wondered how long it would be before Mrs. Brumby and the butler would be bemoaning such lack of decorum. Lucien, however, seemed not to notice his servant's disapproval or Grace's own discomfort.

"I know this arrangement is a trifle unusual, but it seemed only practical to situate you in this room, in case there are alterations you wish to make before we take up residence," he said.

Grace felt a shiver of emotion at the images his words conjured. This would be the chamber where she would begin her new life as Lucien's wife, share his name, and his bed…"Perhaps we could plan any changes to the room together," she ventured. "It would be lovely to have a pair of comfortable chairs by the fireplace where we could sit together of an evening."

"Two chairs will not be necessary. This suite of rooms will be yours alone. I will maintain my own next door."

The abrupt words startled her. She hesitated a moment before she said, "I see."

"Are you displeased with the room?"

"No. I was just thinking…For thirty years, my parents shared a bedchamber until my mother got sick. She had difficulty sleeping and so my father moved into a different room."

"Only practical."

"Was it? Because sometimes at night, I heard her weeping over the distance he'd put between them." Why had she told Lucien that? Suddenly she felt the need to add, "Of course, their marriage was far different than ours will be. But…I always thought my father couldn't bear to see her suffer, and his moving into a separate bedchamber was…somehow wrong."

Cowardly, she added silently, old resentment flaring. She'd moved a cot into her mother's room soon after, because she couldn't bear to leave her alone late at night when doubts and fears of death crept in among the shadows.

Lucien's ice-blue eyes fixed on hers. "Perhaps it is best that we will have no such expectations," he said.

Shoving those memories aside, she glanced around at the room. The heavy drapes blocked all light. What would her own marriage hold? She wondered. To be so very separate from the day they wed…

The dark of the room seemed suddenly overwhelming, and she crossed over to the window, threw the drapes open, letting the light in. She'd had far too much darkness in her life, and this was one small thing she could do on her own.

After two days in the city, Grace's feet ached with so much traipsing from linen drapers to milliners, fan shops and shoemakers, then back again. Helen had been in ecstasy as they'd pored over fashion plates, attempting to convince Grace to choose the outrageous colors and patterns Helen favored. Not that there was any chance of Grace doing so, and she was thankful to find an ally in her soon-to-be mother-in-law who managed to gently redirect Helen's attention to the far more understated shades that Grace preferred. Lady Ravenscroft was so changed from the countess she'd known as a child, and yet, in her deep kindness, still the same—and still beautiful, despite the years.

What had changed was the hint of sadness in the countess's eyes whenever she looked at Lucien. It seemed brittle and tentative. An underlying current of painful and exquisite carefulness in their dealings with each other.

All might have seemed well to anyone less intuitive. Helen certainly had no clue anything was amiss. If Grace had to guess, however, it had much to do with Lucien's need to fill every minute of his day with business, meeting them during the afternoons without fail out of duty. He would escort them to luncheon or Gunter's and then take his leave. Grace, herself, might not have noticed the delicate way they interacted, if not for the occasional, unguarded glances she caught between the two. No doubt about it. Lucien's mother moved through her son's world as if picking her way gingerly across uncertain ground…

Helen, on the other hand, pushed her way through heedlessly, as if clearing a path for ‘our soon-to-be viscountess.'

Today, they wove their way through the vendors hawking posies and embroidered kerchiefs, Helen chatting away with the countess about the wonders of the shop recommended by Mrs. Kemble. "Have you ever shopped there?" she asked, then nattered on without waiting for a reply, as was her habit. "Apparently, this is the shop that is the most fashionable, and dear Mrs. Kemble insists that if we are to have the wedding of the season, we must acquire Grace's wedding gown from there."

Grace, determined to get it over with as soon as possible, glanced up at a bird sitting atop the raised sword of a bronze cavalier. The sense of familiarity on seeing it, reminded her of her last trip to London years ago with her mother. A warmth spread in her heart at the forgotten memory, her mother pointing high up to the statue's stalwart gaze locked on something across the square. "That's how I found my favorite modiste," she'd said. "I thought to myself, what's he looking at? Whatever it is, that's where I want to go. And there she was. Madame Lavoie, her shop newly opened, and I one of her first customers."

Grace stopped mid-step, following the statue's gaze across the square toward the very establishment her mother had frequented so long ago. The paint on the exterior was not as she remembered it, but the sign dangling above was unforgettable. A unicorn with a gauzy veil draped around it. Beneath, in gold letters: M.m. Lavoie, Modiste.

"I wish to go there," she exclaimed, her heart pounding.

"We are going to the shop down the street!" Helen protested. "Mrs. Kemble was most particular?—"

But Grace was already hastening across the square toward the blue-painted door. Behind her, she heard the countess' voice. "It is Grace's wedding. If she desires?—"

Grace didn't hear the rest. She opened the door, and stepped in. The scent of dried roses hit her, and with it vivid memories of her trip here with her mother. A rainbow of fabrics and trims were arranged around the charmingly outfitted room, completed gowns displayed on dress forms. Gleaming mirrors with distinctively carved frames still graced the pale pink walls, the same color as the dried rose petals filling the crystal cut bowl near the leaded window. She could see her younger self, selecting fabric, then retreating to the fitting room, her reflection in the mirror as she stood on the small, raised platform, seamstresses fluttering about…

Mama peering over her shoulder, her face glowing with love and pride.

A movement at the back of the room brought her swiftly back to the present. The modiste, in the midst of giving orders to a young girl about beads to be stitched on a bodice, looked up and froze.

The woman's features were so familiar to Grace it wrenched at her heart. "Madame Lavoie…?" Grace said, her voice cracking. She barely noticed as the countess and Helen swept in. "I'm sure you don't remember me, but?—"

" Mon Dieu , can it be?" Marie Lavoie pressed a hand to her heart and rushed forward. "Lady Grace Elliot! I would recognize you anywhere. So like your dear maman you are."

Tears stung Grace's eyes. "I am sad to say that my mother is not with me, she…"

"I knew…" Madame gave a deep sigh. "When I heard dear Lady Elliot had left town so suddenly, I knew what she dreaded had come to pass. She was so hoping to have more time with you."

Grace's eyes widened. "How did you know? She'd told no one."

"Madame had a spell during a fitting. She must confide in someone, no?" Madame clucked her tongue, her face filled with empathy. "She would not worry her husband or her so-lovely daughter who was on the brink of taking the ton by storm."

A whirl of emotions swept through Grace. Had she known her mother was sick earlier, she would have forced her to go back to The Willows and rest. Perhaps she and the boys could have had a few more precious months with her. How lonely she must have been, keeping her secret from the family those early days.

Grace's throat ached, her tears pushing against her lashes as she thought of her mother's silence.

The modiste gave a wistful smile. "Your maman , she loved you so very much. She was eager to see you through your first season. It wounded her that she might not be here when you became a bride."

"Oh, my…" Helen said under her breath.

Recalling she wasn't alone, Grace schooled her features and turned toward the two older women standing behind her. Helen, who no doubt heard the entire conversation, looked distinctly pale. The countess, her gentle face filled with empathy stood stalwartly next to her as if to lend her support.

The gesture wasn't lost on Grace, and she felt the first twinge of guilt that perhaps Helen deserved a modicum of respect from her, at least in public. "Pardon me for not introducing my companions sooner," Grace said. "Madame Lavoie, may I present the Countess of Ravenscroft and my stepmother, Lady Elliot."

"Stepmother?" Marie's nose wrinkled just the tiniest bit. "Ah, well…Your ladyship, your ladyship, welcome." The Frenchwoman curtsied.

Helen puffed up, her earlier discomfort immediately banished as she announced the reason for their visit. "We are about the business of selecting Lady Grace's trousseau. She is to be married to the Viscount Everdene."

" Mais oui !" Madame smiled as she set aside her pin cushion. "Of course I heard the news. The match is all anyone talks about. Lady Grace, you are quite the sensation since the Elusive Viscount E chose you for his bride. I have seen his lordship about. He is most handsome, and fierce. And now, the young ladies come into the shop, weeping, because he is to be wed! That you have tamed such a man…oh la la!" Madame said with a sweep of her elegant hand.

Grace's cheeks flamed, aware the countess was hearing her son described so.

The modiste smiled kindly at Lady Ravenscroft. "To think the day has come when his lordship will confine himself to hearth and home must warm a mother's heart. And he has chosen a diamond, I can see." She glanced at the over-large gem weighing down Grace's finger, then looked up at her, her dark eyes sparkling. "When I saw the announcement of your betrothal, I told myself, Marie, the day you have awaited has come! I meant to dispatch a note to The Willows, but it seems you already knew that I have something for you here. Is that not why you're here?"

"Something for me?" Grace echoed, as she and her companions stared at the shopkeeper in confusion.

"Ah, so you do not know! Your dearest maman left a gift in my keeping before she left London the last time. A so-precious secret for the daughter she loved."

Grace's breath caught. "From my mother?"

"A gift?" Helen said. "What could it be?"

The seamstress gave a benign smile toward Helen, before turning her full attention to Grace. "Why, the gown for your wedding day. Tucked away for so very long, I will need to find it, and have it delivered…to where?"

The countess replied, "Raven's Court on Curzon Street."

"Of course."

Helen's expression was a mixture of mortification and worry. "A gown? Dear me. It will be hopelessly out of fashion. As a viscountess, our Grace must be at the pinnacle of style."

Tears sprang to Grace's eyes, and she quickly brushed them away. "My mother's gift is far more precious to me than anything we could purchase."

Helen gasped as though stung. "I only mean you must take care, now that you are to be a viscountess. You have your brothers to think of. And your father."

Madame Lavoie stepped between them, her calm smile immediately quelling the growing tension. "I do so agree, my dear Lady Elliot. But I assure you, with a few simple alterations, Lady Grace shall be the epitome of fashion. Which means you will need to look to your own gown for the upcoming wedding. You must have a care or some might think you wish to outshine the bride. You know how gossipers love to prattle."

"Endlessly," Helen said with a nod, her golden curls bouncing.

Lady Ravenscroft walked over to a bolt of peach watered silk. "This would be perfect with your complexion, don't you think, Helen?"

The seamstress picked up the bolt, unwound a swath of the shimmering cloth, then held it to Helen's bodice, draping it over her shoulders. "Perfection."

Grace, recognizing the diversion for what it was, looked at her stepmother's reflection in the mirror. The soft peach, so different from the garish persimmon that Helen favored, accentuated the soft pink of her lips and cheeks. "It's quite beautiful on you."

"Is it?" Helen stared at the mirror almost in wonder. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look around."

Madame smiled knowingly. "Look around all you care to. But this…This is your color. Shall we start a fitting?"

Helen glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. "It is near time for luncheon. We will never reach the shop we were to visit before we meet Lord Everdene anyway."

As the seamstress led Helen to the fitting room, the countess regarded Grace with a worried aura. "You look very pale my dear, and no wonder. Would you care to sit down?"

"I think I just need a bit of fresh air."

"Would you like me to come with you?" the countess asked.

Grace shook her head. "I need a moment alone." She turned and fled out the door, scarce seeing the shoppers bustling about, baskets looped over arms, footmen carrying packages for their mistresses.

As she wandered through the smattering of vendors hawking their wares, she glimpsed a bench near the towering bronze cavalier. But before she could reach the seat, a high-pitched shriek split the air. A young girl stood at the base of the statue, her arms skyward.

Just above her, clinging for dear life to the raised sword arm of the bronze cavalier, was a small boy, his feet dangling midair.