Chapter 6

6

G race held her tongue in the carriage, sitting quietly while Roland and Thorne discussed arrangements for the search. They would need the horses saddled, bread and cheese wrapped for food, and skins of water for all involved. For his part, the Breaker stared out the window, ignoring them all.

Every now and again, Grace cast a glance at her husband, checking whether he was looking her way. It made sense for her to remain behind in the castle while the men went off to join the search. But Grace was not exactly known for choosing the safest options, particularly not when lives were at risk. A large part of her yearned to offer aid, but the wiser parts of her mind cautioned her to care for the life she cradled in her body. If she set out and something went wrong—even if she found the missing children—she would never forgive herself for putting the life of her future child at risk.

Roland, however, seemed content to accept her acquiescence at face value. Upon their return to the castle, he kissed her goodbye before rushing off to change into his riding clothes.

Withers had disappeared upstairs, following behind the duke, leaving Grace standing alone in the front hall. There was a strong, crisp pine smell from the wreaths hanging, and it mingled pleasantly with the beeswax from the polished bannisters, but the cold stone of Alnwick Castle detracted from the warm feeling of Christmas she had always experienced when decorating with evergreen boughs at her old home. Here, the pine smell was strong and a little wild, like the forest itself encroached upon their doorstep.

In search of company, Grace climbed the stairs to her suite of rooms, thinking she might find Elsie tidying her things. She was keen to learn how the servants had reacted to the news of her reward.

But Elsie was not in her sitting room, nor bedroom, and not in the dressing room, either. Grace had every right to ring for her maid, but how would she frame the request? Elsie had responsibilities enough without Grace adding entertaining the lady of the house as another.

She picked up the book she had been reading, but set it down after ten minutes of staring blankly at the same page. Her mind was too awash with concerns and fears to allow a fictional world to take hold. She gathered her stack of unanswered correspondence and went to work reading the first. It proved to be a letter from her dearest friend Charity, now Duchess Atholl. Having gone from married to widowed within a month, and now conducting her mourning in the wilds of Scotland, Charity had plenty of time to pen long missives to her friend.

For a time, reading the letter lifted Grace’s spirits, but when she reached the end, she felt even more alone. Her hand hovered over the page, her mind searching for the right words to share. She could not tell Charity of her most precious news before she had shared it with Roland. Keeping that to herself left her bereft of information to share.

A knock on the door saved her from brooding. Mrs Yardley entered. “Luncheon is ready to be served, my lady. His Grace is taking his meal on a tray. I can have one prepared for you, as well, if you would prefer not to dine in the dining room.”

Grace grasped the opportunity to get out of her room, and expressed her desire to dine at the table. At least there, she would have footmen and mayhap even Withers on hand to answer any questions that came to mind.

She followed Mrs Yardley through the hallways and down the stairs until they neared the entrance to the dining room. It, too, was festively decorated with gold ribbon tied around bunches of ivy. But that was the most cheerful thing about the empty room.

A uniformed footman stood tall on either side of the door, their faces perfect masks of indifference. Somehow, their silent presence was more unnerving than being alone. It made little sense, particularly given she had grown up in a house with servants. The fact remained that the staff here were still strangers to her. She did not know which footmen told jokes when belowstairs, nor which housemaid could be relied upon to keep a secret.

The table stretched along the length of the room, with seating for sixteen. A single place, at the foot of the table, had been set for Grace’s use, lonely candles jutting from the twined emerald and gold threads of ribbons around the candlestick holder. She walked past the empty chairs, the smoke from the burning candles tickling her nose, and imagined the house filled with guests. It was a foolish thought, but she allowed the picture to grow ever more elaborate. When the footman pushed her chair under the table, the image disappeared.

Withers entered the room, followed by a line of footmen bearing trays. Course after course, they took turns delivering and taking away plates and bowls, topping up her wine, and offering sauce. Each passing further emphasised their difference in station. No matter how much Grace wished it, these people would never truly be her friends. Though Elsie came close, she, too, was in Grace’s employ.

Her appetite soured, Grace declined offers of pudding and tea. As she rose from her chair, a footman hurried over with her wrap.

The stylish throws her mother had pressed upon her fell well short of what Grace needed for a northern winter. After watching Grace shiver for a day, Elsie had asked Mrs Yardley to locate something more appropriate. Within a few hours, the housekeeper had delivered a thick, wrapped bundle that smelled of cedar and must, hinting at its age. Elsie aired it out for a day, cleaned away any lingering dust, and returned it good as new.

Though the wrap was a hand-me-down, Grace had grown rather fond of it. Made of damask, lined in velvet, it was heavier than the cashmere wraps popular in London. Metallic threads made it shimmer in the light. Grace was not often one to give into the fanciful tales, but wearing it here, in the ancient halls of Alnwick Castle, allowed her to imagine herself as a princess of Camelot or some other olden time.

She pulled it tight, revelling in the warmth it had gathered while resting near the fireplace. She walked past the stairs leading to her rooms, intent upon exploring other parts of the castle. Elsie had mentioned a second set of winding stairs that led up to the castle walls. Intent upon her destination, Grace turned into a lesser used corridor, one with no windows and only a few flickering torches to light the way.

The swish of her skirts seemed overloud until a shuffling noise reached her ears from behind. Another shuffled step and a thunk of wood on stone called to mind the bumps the Sprouts had heard during the night. She swung around, determined to identify the source of the noise, and saw a distant shadow. It moved closer at a halting pace, until a torch illuminated the hunched form of the Breaker.

“Back again, are you?” he asked in a rough voice.

“I never left,” Grace replied. “It is far too cold out.”

“Too cold, too dark,” he muttered, venturing closer. He peered at her through squinting eyes. “Never seemed to stop you before, but I suppose good sense must eventually prevail.”

As far as the Breaker went, that was practically a compliment. His cane slipped on a smooth place on the floor. Though he caught himself, Grace acted on instinct, reaching out a hand to shore him up. She expected him to shove her away, but he latched on, allowing her to bear some of his weight.

For the briefest instant, the fierce facade of the old duke crumbled, leaving behind a weary old man. Grace found herself losing the battle against her heart’s desire to soften its stance on the feared Breaker. Her head warned that she would regret spending even a moment longer with him, but her mouth opened and asked him where he was going.

“To the library,” he said. “You come along. You can get a book of your own to read.”

The honeyed notes of his favourite pipe tickled her nose, and the smell of camphor grew stronger, bringing to mind her great grandmother’s ointment she used on her aching hands and knees. The Breaker might think himself invincible, but time weighed on him, pulling his shoulders forward and halting his steps.

She had viewed him for so long as a punishment to be avoided at all costs. Now she questioned her judgement. How much old history might be forgotten if they did not mend their fences? What might she and Roland, and even Thorne, learn from his stories of time long gone? He had wed, fathered children, and suffered through their loss. Might it bring him some measure of peace to recall Roland’s father as the child he once was? Roland and Thorne bore no love for the man who had sired them. Grace wondered whether hearing about his early days could cast him in a new light.

The duke, too, seemed inclined to smooth his rough edges. Not once did the old duke chastise Grace, nor question why she was not yet with child. He muttered a complaint or two about her willfulness, but somehow that made her smile rather than frown. For the first time, hope bloomed that he might one day regard her as an individual with her own mind rather than as a vessel to bear the next generation.

He pointed her to the next hallway to the left, and then indicated she should open an unfamiliar door. The handle refused to budge until the duke laid his gnarled fingers over hers and pushed down with his added might. The latch grated as it slid back, but move it did. Grace nudged the door forward, wincing at the creak of the unoiled hinges. She half expected to find a pitch black space, but instead, light spilled into the hallway.

They had arrived in the library, just as the Breaker said they would, though by a different door than the one Grace knew. After the half darkness of the corridor, Grace blinked while her eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the room.

The room was not overlarge, particularly in comparison with the grand drawing room and expansive dining hall. Yet, what it lacked in space it made up for in richness. Fires blazed at either end of the room. Four tables, each topped with candelabra, stood in the centre of the space, providing a work area for those with more to study. Shelves and shelves of books rose from floor to ceiling, lining every wall in the room. Velvet covered settees with elaborately carved legs and matching side tables filled the remaining space, tempting Grace to curl up with a book and a steaming cup of tea.

“Go on over there,” the Breaker said, pulling away from her. “I had them shelve your sentimental books in that corner, where hopefully no one will find them.”

Grace watched the man hobble away to an overstuffed chair situated beside the lit fireplace. He dropped into the seat with a low groan and leaned over to rub his leg.

Grace was left with the question of what he had meant by his statement. Her books ? She had procured a volume here and there during their summer and autumn travels, but all those books now had a home in her cosy sitting room. She had arranged them there not two days before. If the duke had demanded the footmen move her private collection into the library, she would not hold her tongue.

She left the man to his ministrations and hurried over to see what he had done. As she walked closer, she let her eyes skim over the book bindings. All she saw was rows of matching deep brown leather with titles stamped in gilt on the sides. Only the very bottom row saw that pattern break. There, the leather varied from brown to blue and to maroon, and the heights varied in size. Grace sank down onto her knees so she could get a closer view. Not a single book was familiar, though she was interested in a few of the titles. She plucked the second volume of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela from the shelf, but skipped past the books of poetry.

“Hannah?” the duke’s gruff voice called out. Grace continued at her task. The duke raised his voice again, this time louder. “Who is there? You cannot hide from me.”

Intrigued, Grace tucked the book under her arm and rose to her feet. She glanced around for the housemaid the duke was calling, but found the room empty other than the two of them. Stranger again, the duke was staring directly at her, his mouth twisted in frustration.

“Are you playing tricks on me?” he asked, glowering at her.

“I—” Grace waited to see if someone else would speak up. Perhaps this Hannah, to whom he had called for earlier, but his gaze never shifted. There was no choice but to continue. “I am not up to any ill deeds. Was there something you needed?”

“My book. I left it here, tucked against the side of the cushion, but it is nowhere to be found.” He shoved his hand into the space to emphasise its emptiness.

Grace fumbled for a reply. “I did not touch a book of yours. Do you think Hannah moved it? Is she one of the maids?”

The duke gripped the arms of the chair so hard that his shoulders shook. “How dare you utter that name to me!”

Confused by his sudden burst of anger, Grace stepped back.

“Withers!” he roared, growing more agitated with every breath. He shifted in the seat, searching for the strength to rise. He knocked into his cane, sending it clattering to the floor and making him shout again in frustration.

On the other end of the room, the main door swung open. Withers hurried inside, moving as swiftly as he could to assist the duke.

“Your Grace, allow me to assist you,” he said in a carefully neutral tone. Withers held himself steady, bracing upon the chair as the duke heavily pulled on his butler’s arm to lever himself to a standing position.

“What have you done with my book?” the duke demanded to his butler’s face, now that he was upright. “Did you move it?”

Wither’s eyes darted briefly towards Grace’s stock still form. “My apologies. I did move it, Your Grace. It is in your room now. Allow me to accompany you back there. The light is better for reading there and your chair is far more comfortable.”

The Breaker stopped and harrumphed, the wind leaving his sails. “How many times must I tell you not to move my things?”

“I am sorry, Your Grace. I was only trying to anticipate your comfort.” Withers took great care to avoid meeting Grace’s gaze, despite her weighty stare and concerned expression.

It left Grace with a peculiar feeling as Withers closed the door behind him. The sudden silence almost made it feel like the scene that had just happened had never transpired at all.

Grace gripped onto the back of the nearest chair back, not caring that she was crushing the velvet upholstery. Her fingers sank deep, anchoring her to the present. She had not imagined her interaction with the duke. But as for what to make of it, she knew not.

Running through the exchange with the duke in the hallway, Grace could only come to one conclusion. The duke had thought he was talking to someone else. Not the Countess Percy, wife of his grandson, but… Hannah. Whoever she was.

Before she could convince herself to let go of the chair, the door opened again. It was not a servant who entered the room, but her husband. His nose was still red from the cold. He was back from the search.

She studied the shape of his shoulders, searching for clues to the outcome. When he stepped into the light, the pained expression on his face made it abundantly clear that the news would not be good.