Grace let go of the paper and it fluttered to the coverlet. Both her mother and Sir Henry confirmed one another, they just had vastly different opinions of the facts. On the one hand, she did not like that her mother was made unhappy. But on the other hand, it did sound as if she was improving. Grace had carried so little hope that her mother would get stronger and now it seemed she was. Perhaps this was a case of she did not like it, but it was for her own good?
It must be so; Sir Henry was unlikely to fabricate to Lady Heathway.
Perhaps she ought to write her mother an encouraging letter to continue on with what she was being asked to do, even though it was not entirely comfortable.
After the facts of the letter sank in, Grace began to reflect on what else had occurred this night. She had, at first, only been disappointed that she had not gotten away, and a bit terrified that Ranston had taken a shot at her. She’d gone out the window to avoid his prowling downstairs but had never imagined he would come outside and shoot at her.
And then there was the fact that Mr. Jacobs and his friends had witnessed it all.
And Lord Gresham, for that matter.
Oh, how she wished it had not been him staring down at her while she lay sprawled in the shrubbery! And then he had been so sharp with her when she’d suggested that Mr. Jacobs would not tell the tale far and wide. No, in fact she’d not even got that far. He’d cut her off and informed her of precisely what Mr. Jacobs would do.
On top of the lord imagining she had somehow set her cap on him and must be dissuaded, she now appeared entirely ridiculous! A fool who was set on embarrassing Lady Heathway.
Oh, and poor Lady Heathway. What had she brought upon that lady? She must be grateful that the dear woman had been kind about it, though it would strike her deeply to be laughed at.
Grace quietly groaned. She’d meant to slip out of the house and be off, but instead she had made a spectacle of herself. And a spectacle of Lord and Lady Heathway too. And even Lord Gresham, she supposed.
There was a soft knock on the door and then it swung slowly open. Betsy poked her head in, and seeing she was awake, entered the room.
“I had to come and see with my own two eyes that you were still alive,” Betsy said.
“Very much alive,” Grace said. “I have only been busy humiliating myself.”
Betsy let out a long and slow breath. “Things is topsy-turvy in the servants’ quarters. We was all woken by Mr. Ranston wailing in the men’s quarters. Mrs. Redwiggin went to investigate and now she swears that Mr. Ranston tried to shoot you off the side of the house and he’s so undone over it that he’ll stay abed for days.”
Grace only nodded.
Betsy said, “Gracious. Hedidshoot at you. I thought it might just be his fevered imagination. But what was you doing on the side of the house? You never did think to elope with some fella?”
Grace sat up straight at even the hint of such a thing. “Goodness, no! Please correct anyone below stairs who says so.” She got a sinking feeling that theory might be thought by more than Betsy. It might take hold in society, an idea that Lady Heathway had likely not even considered.
Betsy’s eye traveled to Grace’s ripped riding habit and whispered, “What was you doing?”
Grace sighed and said, “Lady Barlow wrote me a letter and appeared to need me, so…”
Betsy nodded knowingly. “You was going to run to her.”
Grace nodded.
“Aye, Lady Barlow never did well on her own. She’s the kind of lady, if you don’t mind me sayin,’ that my ma used to call a flower on the wilt what needs a lot of watering. Well, I suppose all’s well that ends well.”
“I do hope it ends well,” Grace said, “but I am not convinced of it.”
Betsy picked up the skirt of the riding habit. “I’ll see if this can be cleaned and mended. Meanwhile, I’ll slip downstairs and pour you a nip of sherry to put things right.”
Grace did not answer. She was not certain there was enough sherry in the world to put things right.
Chapter Seven
Though Grace hadremained abed until noon, Lady Heathway had been up and planning before the clock struck eight. She had sent emergency missives to all the ladies of the society—she required their attendance in her drawing room at four o’clock sharp.
When Grace had come into the drawing room, looking very down in the mouth unfortunately, Penelope had set her on some sewing. Then, at half past three, she’d packed her into a carriage with her maid so the air might lift her spirits. The coachman was directed to drive round the park until at least five.
In truth, she wished the girl well away from the house during her meeting with the other ladies. She could not know what would be said and would not wish for Grace to overhear anything less than complimentary. In a disaster such as this, spirit would be everything. She would need Grace to be chin up and confident. Or, as confident as onecouldbe after sliding down a drainpipe and being shot at.
Now that the appointed hour approached, she found her resolve firm. Penelope Prescott would overcome this minor setback. She was not a marchioness in name only, she was a marchioness in resolution and perseverance too.
