Joanna Johnson - Scandalously Wed To The Captain

‘Please don’t fuss.’ Mrs Dauntsey swatted at Spencer with a feeble hand. ‘I heard you come back and wanted to be sure you were well. Whatever can you have been thinking of, going walking in such—oh!’ She broke off abruptly as she caught sight of Grace standing awkwardly in Spencer’s wake. ‘I didn’t realise you’d brought company with you.’

Grace dipped a respectful greeting, wishing with all her heart she hadn’t left a trail of dirty rainwater on her unwitting hostess’s pristine floor. Now Mrs Dauntsey’s attention was focused fully on her she saw some faint traces of the woman she had once known: a refined jaw and delicate nose giving an air of sophistication despite the waxy sheen of her skin and mauve shadows beneath eyes that glittered with sudden wonder.

Spencer nodded in Grace’s direction; a little unwillingly, she saw. ‘Mother, I’m sure you recall—’

‘Grace Linwood!’ The stiff introduction was cut off by a gasp of delight. ‘I’d know you at once, although I can scarce believe how you’ve grown!’

Her reaction was far more gratifying than Spencer’s had been, Grace thought privately as she felt a glimmer of warmth touch her otherwise chilly insides. His mother had always been such a kind woman, it was a relief to find at least that much unchanged.

‘Mrs Dauntsey, it’s so wonderful to see you again!’

There was a split-second of alarm as the older woman almost overbalanced in her eagerness to grasp Grace’s hands and Grace had to lunge forward quite inelegantly to stop her from falling. Mrs Dauntsey peered into her face, drinking in the sight of her with happiness so genuine it almost made Grace forget the tide of varied emotions causing chaos in her stomach.

‘Little Grace, quite the grown woman—and the very image of your dear mama! I’d thought to surprise her with my return to town, but as I’m sure you can see I’ve been a trifle too ill to pay any calls. I should have sent a note, I know, but I’m afraid I was determined to see her shocked face when I appeared on your doorstep!’

Spencer’s mother laughed, a thin peal so unlike the hearty sound she might have made eight years ago before her husband had died and her sons had whisked her away, only one of them now left to stand behind her like an unsmiling guard. Spencer’s formerly stern expression was already beginning to set in once again, obscuring the openness of moments before like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. Perhaps he only allowed himself one moment of levity a day, Grace just had time to wonder briefly—with another unpleasant jolt of recognition that brooding could still be very attractive indeed—before Mrs Dauntsey laid one skeletal hand on the damp sleeve of her gown.

‘My dear, you look absolutely chilled to the bone. Won’t you sit with me before the fire and take some tea?’ She cocked her head, the sparkle never leaving the brown gaze so like the colour of her son’s. Out of the corner of her eye Grace could have sworn she saw Spencer stiffen, but there didn’t appear to be any question of refusal as the older woman gestured towards the door she had appeared through with a welcoming smile. ‘Do come through to my sitting room. I can’t tell you how delightful it is to see you again after all this time!’

Mrs Dauntsey cast a quick glance up at Spencer, apparently trying to read something in his face, although what she could have seen in the straight set of his lips Grace could only guess. Certainly to her there was nothing to be seen but faint displeasure, almost bordering on discomfort, and it was a relief to follow the slow progress of his mother away from his disturbing presence in the direction of her warm and comfortable sitting room.

‘Do sit down.’

Mrs Dauntsey waved a hand at an enormous chair drawn up to the fire. The flames cast Grace’s shadow long across the carpeted floor as she sank into it, her body leaning instinctively towards the hearth as though longing for its heat. She hadn’t realised how cold she had been; distress had numbed her senses, and it was only when her fingers tingled painfully she saw the blueish hue that tinged them.

There was a bell on a table next to Mrs Dauntsey’s overstuffed armchair and she lifted it with a small sound of effort.

‘There. Tea will be along in a moment. If I remember correctly, you always liked it sweet with plenty of milk.’

For the first time since Henry had thrust his fateful letter into her hand Grace felt a tentative upward tug at her mouth. Despite her fragility and in startling contrast to her glowering son, Spencer’s mother radiated warmth, her memory of the preferences of a child oddly touching.

‘That’s right. I’m afraid I still use rather too much honey.’

‘I’m not sure there’s any such thing.’

Mrs Dauntsey settled herself against her cushions and regarded Grace keenly, apparently hungry for every detail of her face and windswept hair.

‘Let me begin by apologising for my silence the past couple of years.’ Her voice held soft regret, real feeling that Grace knew was sincere. ‘We moved around so often after we left Dorset, even living in Scotland for a time, that inevitably some of my effects were lost between houses. Among them was my writing case, containing—as I’m sure you’ve guessed—not only all the correspondence from your mother, but also my little book of addresses. I thought I’d committed yours to memory, but when my letters were returned as misdirected I realised I must have been mistaken.’

When she smiled again it was like a shaft of sunlight in the darkened room. ‘But now I’ve returned to the place I spent my happiest years and the daughter of my dearest friend sits before me. So please—tell me everything I missed!’

Grace hesitated, taking in the vivid interest on the drawn face, but at a loss as to how to reply.

Where should I start? With my jilting, or Papa’s imprisonment?

To her unending horror Grace felt a prickling behind her eyes, the distress of the past few hours rising again at the question. Mrs Dauntsey’s kindness threatened to make a fresh river of tears flow, her innocent enquiry a stark reminder of Papa’s plight and the dizzying turn Grace’s life had taken for the worse—but wasn’t that the truth for her hostess, too? She’d lost a son since she had been in the north and Spencer had lost his twin; and both of them were now so altered it would have been forgivable for even intimate acquaintances to hesitate. So much had happened in the intervening years, including Grace’s new distrust in the word of a handsome man.

Some clue as to the workings of her mind must have shown on her face, for the smile left Mrs Dauntsey’s lips at once, her brow creasing in concern as she leaned forward to look into Grace’s downturned eyes.

‘Grace? Why, dearest, you look so troubled. Is something amiss?’

Her expression was so worried that Grace had to bite her tongue to stop herself from breaking down. It would have taken a heart of stone to resist the pull of that readily offered sympathy: how many times had Mrs Dauntsey soothed Grace’s bumped head or grazed elbow as a child, or passed her a sweet beneath the cover of a card table? Her kindness had always been apparent, but never more than at that moment, her obvious dismay tempting Grace to confess every secret sorrow she’d ever had.

A single impatient sigh from directly behind her chair made Grace start in surprise, the sudden movement once again sending a shard of agony through her injured neck.

He followed us in here?

She winced, twisting to peer at Spencer looming above her and looking for all the world as though she was the bane of his existence. He was close enough for her to have touched the soft fabric of his rich breeches and the very idea of such a scandalous—and tempting—action jolted Grace into speech.