her going through all her troubles.’
Grace nodded, trying to ignore the little voice that piped up inside her to ask the obvious question: Troubles that you’ve only added to, Spencer?
Dorothea had already told her why nobody visited Nevin Place, in equal parts frustrated and worried by her son’s ill-judged behaviour. The decanter Grace had spied waiting for him next to the very armchair she had just been sitting in only reinforced the truth of his mother’s fears: that he spent much of his time alone, stubbornly refusing to explain his reasons for needing to seek oblivion so ardently it had cost him his reputation. It was no wonder the rumours about him swirled, when he stalked through life looking so grim-faced and a smattering of bruises still on the fists that roused such comment.
There was still a glimmer of the unnamed something in Spencer’s look as Grace held out the book in her hand for him to take, suddenly aware how much she wanted to be free of the attention of those sharp eyes. Surely to spend too much time in Spencer’s disturbing company was a mistake, his powerful presence whispering to her with a sweet voice Henry had robbed her of the ability to enjoy.
‘Will you take this? I found it on the table and I’m not sure on which shelf it belongs.’
Spencer reached out for the book she proffered, his large hand taking the weight, and in so doing brushed Grace’s fingers with his own, sending a shockwave streaking the length of her arm to blaze beneath her ribs.
A gasp fell from Grace’s lips before she could bite it back, her breath suddenly scalding at the unexpected feeling on his skin against hers. It was the quickest of touches, so brief it shouldn’t even have registered, yet the nerves in her fingertips sang in unwelcome chorus, her heartbeat leaping to beat in time with the rhythm Spencer’s warmth conducted.
She could have sworn he felt a similar jolt of surprise, no doubt born of the discomfort her company already seemed to inspire. Surely he hadn’t felt a pang of disconcerting pleasure at the feel of soft skin against his more rugged fingers, an echo of the shameful feeling that coursed in Grace’s veins. Only Henry had ever made her feel anything remotely similar; and even then not as vividly as the spark Spencer sent scurrying down her spine, nor half so effortlessly. Spencer looked down at her uncertainly, his gaze moving from her eyes to lips still parted in wonder, and whatever he saw in her flushed face made him step a smart pace backwards.
‘Thank you. I’ll see it’s returned to its proper place.’
Grace nodded, her mouth suddenly dry and mind accursedly blank. It was precisely the kind of situation she’d been so determined to avoid and when she dipped a hurried curtsy and left the library it was with far more speed than might have been necessary.
Grace’s heart still hammered as she cautiously opened Dorothea’s bedchamber door and quietly stepped inside. Mrs Dauntsey lay fast asleep against the richly embroidered pillows of a daybed beneath a large window, her chest rising and falling with an effort it pained Grace to see. The pretty room with its plush carpet and expensive French furniture was not as warm as it should have been, considering the January chill outside, and she moved noiselessly to stoke up the embers that gleamed in the grate.
Another layer draped over Dorothea would be a good idea, too. It made her joints ache all the more if she was not kept snug, even though she protested about being swaddled like an infant, and despite the chaos holding a carnival inside her chest Grace found a small smile at the thought of her friend’s determination not to surrender to her illness. It would claim her eventually, of course, but that was a bleak possibility Grace wasn’t willing to stare dead in the face.
A fine woollen blanket lay folded at the end of the daybed and Grace drew it up to cover Dorothea’s sleeping form, tucking it round her with careful fingers. The more the patient slept now the more energy she’d have later, perhaps even able to be helped downstairs to stand at the garden door and take some of the crisp winter air. The doctor wouldn’t approve, Grace thought wryly as she smoothed the blanket into place, but he might never know the illicit activities of two conspiring women. She and Dorothea made a formidable team, their prior connection only having deepened over the past weeks to a relationship that brought both tremendous comfort. When Mrs Linwood came to drink tea even more peals of laughter could be heard from the formerly silent chamber as events from years past were revisited, renewing bonds and adding a layer to old friendships to make them afresh.
Quite unlike my dealings with another old acquaintance, who shall remain nameless.
At the unwelcome thought of Spencer Grace’s hands grew clumsy, her mind too occupied to pay much attention to her movements. Her skin still tingled where masculine fingers had brushed her own, only feather-light and accidental yet dangerously effective in making her cheeks flare with heat. It was every bit as uncomfortable a fact as it had been the moment it happened, mere minutes ago downstairs, and Grace had yet to find a way to banish the thought back to the darkest pit of her mind where it belonged.
‘Have I done something to offend you, Grace? I’m not sure I deserve such manhandling!’
There was a gleam of amusement in Dorothea’s eye as Grace jumped, freezing in the act of vigorously arranging the blanket. Evidently her focus had wandered too far for her to be gentle and she dropped the tasselled hem with guilty haste.
‘Sorry. My mind was...on other things.’
‘Don’t apologise. Of all people, I know what it’s like to have a lot to think about.’
Dorothea tried to ease herself up to sit back against the cushions behind her, accepting Grace’s supporting hand with a pained smile. ‘Did I sleep for long enough, do you think? I hope you weren’t bored while I was so rudely inattentive. What pleasant thing did you find to occupy you?’
Grace wasn’t entirely sure if spending time with Spencer counted as a ‘pleasant thing’; two conflicting opinions wrestling each other for supremacy. It seemed safest to offer a bland smile of her own, although Grace felt her heart rate skip a fraction faster.
‘I thought I’d sit in the library and read a while, until I was chanced upon by Spencer. We talked for a short while before I came to check on you.’
‘Ah. And how is my son today?’ With a grunt of effort Dorothea pulled a lumpy pillow from beneath her. ‘He came to my rooms soon after breakfast, but I doubt I shall see him again until supper.’
Grace hesitated. The unerringly honest part of her ought to win out, but to tell Dorothea her son had made a beeline for the library decanter as she left seemed unwise. She knew how much her staunchly Quaker friend hated having strong drink in the house, although Spencer was far too stubborn to be ruled by anybody but himself. ‘He—he seemed well enough. After a fashion.’
‘Hmm.’ Dorothea eyed her narrowly, but then merely sighed. ‘You always were faultlessly polite, even as a little girl. I’m aware Spencer isn’t the easiest of companions these days and it worries me relentlessly.’
‘I know. I know you have much to bear, but do try not to distress yourself. It does you no good.’
Something of an understatement, Grace conceded as she watched her friend’s laboured breaths.
To lose the husband she’d adored, followed by a son just six years later, was a devastating blow—only compounded by her remaining boy turning into somebody she barely knew. Her failing health was the final piece of a tragic puzzle, so sad it hardly seemed possible.
‘You’re right, of course. Only...’ Another sigh came from the skeletal figure beneath the blanket. ‘The change in him, Grace. Of course he grieved when his father passed, but since we lost William he’s been a man I simply don’t recognise. You must have seen that he takes no pleasure in anything, not even pursuits he used to feel passion for. There was a time when he sketched every day, you know, and showed great promise; he hasn’t so much as picked up a pencil these past two years, as if the very spark of inspiration has