Grace hid her smile at the memory of Mrs Merriweather’s little legs flying up in the air as the bench gave way—at least they had been spared the spice-laden mashed potatoes.
‘We must not keel under the pressure of all these repairs,’ quipped Heather unhelpfully. ‘Perhaps Jimmy could craft a new bench for us?’ she added, continuing to scribble her letters.
Grace tried her best to control her giggles. ‘But we would still need to buy the materials and tools, and we simply cannot afford it at present.’
The ladies fell into silent contemplation. A shadow of gloom descended upon them—a stark reminder of the sacrifices Charles had forced upon them. As Grace pondered what could be done, Heather interjected, ‘What about selling Mama’s jewellery? The ones she left for me?’
Grace disliked the idea of parting with more mementoes of their beloved mother and abruptly responded, ‘Heather, under no circumstances are you to sell your jewellery. They are antique Indian designs, passed down through generations, and once sold, there will be nothing similar in England. Mama left them for you to wear.’
Heather bristled immediately. ‘I have just turned seventeen and am perfectly capable of deciding for myself! Besides, I won’t be wearing any of them, will I?’
With that, she stormed off, leaving Grace regretful—both for her abruptness and for the painful realisation that Heather was right. In their current situation, there would be little opportunity for her to wear them.
A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER, tensions still lingered in the Skye household following Heather’s outburst. Grace was battling a particularly stubborn weed in the vegetable patch, taking out her frustrations on the poor plant, when a harassed-looking Mrs Merriweather came hurrying out of the house.
‘Miss Grace, we have a visitor—he wishes to see you. He is waiting in the morning room.’
Covered in mud, Grace straightened up. ‘A visitor? For me? Who?’ But Mrs Merriweather had already disappeared.
Concerned for her companion’s well-being, Grace made a mental note to help her more in the kitchen. Absently removing her smock, she patted down the dirt on her dress and brushed stray strands of hair from her face before stepping into the morning room.
There, she found a young gentleman with slicked-back blond hair and a medium build. She guessed his age to be in his early to mid-twenties. His angular features suited him—by most standards, he would be regarded as handsome—but Graceremained unaffected. Slowly, recognition dawned. He was the same man who had accompanied that obnoxious excuse for a solicitor.
As he stood upon her entrance, she greeted him. ‘Mr Smith, what a surprise. How did you know where to find us?’ She curtsied politely.
Tapping his nose, he replied, ‘I have my ways, Miss Skye.’
Noting the dirt on her gown and the stray wisps of hair framing her face, he smiled with a twinkle of appreciation in his eyes.
‘You must be quite the Bow Street Runner, Mr Smith, for we took pains to remain hidden,’ she teased. There was no reason for secrecy, but she was curious to see how he had tracked them down.
Mr Smith, however, missed her jest and replied earnestly, ‘Oh, I am sorry, Miss Skye. I had no intention of intruding...’
Laughing, she waved her hand in reassurance. He relaxed and sat back in the armchair as she handed him a cup of tea. (Grace wisely refrained from offering him the biscuits.)
He took a sip and promptly choked just as Heather entered the morning room, dressed in a lilac morning gown. A serendipitous ray of sunlight followed her in, creating a halo effect that rendered her angelic.
After introductions were made, Mr Smith suddenly appeared nervous. Grace took pity on him and attempted to ease his discomfort.
‘So, when did you acquire your talents in hunting down individuals who do not wish to be found?’ she asked with amusement.
Finally realising her jest, he replied, ‘Ah, well—being a solicitor, we often track down people of interest, heirs, and inheritors of wills. You would be surprised at what I have pickedup in my line of work. If you ever wish to find the unfindable, you may depend on me, Miss Skye.’
‘How about highwaymen? Can you find them?’ Heather interjected, her interest piqued.
He chuckled but, not wanting to disappoint her, replied gallantly, ‘Why not? Someone, somewhere, will always know the highwayman in question. Do you have one in mind, Miss Heather?’
‘Oh, no!’ She giggled. ‘I was merely curious.’
‘Well, then, you must be an asset to Bow Street Runners and the like,’ Grace quipped.
‘Alas, they do not consult us, and we do not divulge,’ he said. Tapping his nose again, he added conspiratorially, ‘Client confidentiality, you know. But no doubt, if they did—and if we could—we would not disappoint!’
He was looking far more at ease now.
Half an hour passed in pleasant conversation. Grace made a mental note to invite more friends and neighbours to the cottage. Perhaps attending the local assemblies might be in order as well.
‘So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? It is a long journey from London,’ she inquired.
