Not by Sight Read Free Page B

with the bright red berries of the buckthorn.
    Relieved at being away from her father’s watchful eye and Lady Bassett’s censure, she couldn’t have asked for a more pleasing exile. It was the perfect setting for her next story.
    “We’re almost to Roxwood, miss!”
    Grace turned from the window and smiled at her maid’s excitement. “Have you grown tired of all the traveling, then?”
    “Not at all,” Agnes said. “Since I came to this country, I’ve never stepped outside of London. In the past two weeks we’vebeen to Norfolk and all the places in between.” Her brown eyes widened. “I didn’t know Britain was so grand.”
    “Yes, it has been a whirlwind,” Grace said. “I can hardly believe we left London just this morning.” Now they were traveling the last leg of their journey to Roxwood. The Kent estate apparently encompassed an enormous amount of acreage between Canterbury and the town of Margate and would be their home for the next few weeks as she and Agnes began their service in the Women’s Forage Corps—WFC—harvesting and baling hay for the cavalry horses overseas.
    “It was good of your father to hire us a cab.”
    “There wasn’t much choice, since the trains don’t run on Sunday. It wouldn’t do for us to be late reporting for our first day of work.” Grace added in a low voice, “Anyway, likely Da paid the driver to report back on my behavior.”
    Agnes shot her a sympathetic look. “Yes, he’s been very . . . attentive toward you since the costume party.”
    “I suppose ‘attentive’ is a nice way of putting it,” Grace said with wry humor. Lady Bassett followed through on her threat, and Da had been furious over Grace’s “white-feather stunt.” He’d railed for days, alternating between threats to bring Aunt Florence from Oxford or marry Grace off to his American protégé, Clarence Fowler. Then he forbade her to attend any more suffragette meetings with those “brazen Pankhurst women.” Finally, heeding the advice of his chief patroness who warned him to “keep an eye on that one,” he’d restricted Grace to the upper offices at Swan’s, preparing tea care packages for the soldiers while he decided what to do.
    “I knew the risks of attending the ball that night,” she went on. “And I have no regrets, despite my being confined.” She cast her maid a meaningful glance. “Not while my brother fights in France and others are allowed to shirk their duty.”
    Like Jack Benningham. Grace shifted her gaze toward thewindow while again her mind replayed her thrilling encounter with the tall, handsome, blue-eyed Casanova. As always, the memory of his seductive smile, and the way his midnight gaze held hers in those moments they stood facing each other, had the power to make her pulse leap. They hadn’t spoken a word that night, yet she’d sensed a connection between them. It was a feeling she didn’t particularly care for, not only because of his scandalous reputation, but because he was a coward. Grace hadn’t seen him again after the ball, but she’d read in the Times days later about a fire at his London townhouse. Rumors buzzed through Swan’s of how after a night of substantial gambling losses, a drunken Jack Benningham had accidentally set the place ablaze. Apparently the damage was minimal, with him sustaining minor injuries, but she still hoped the ordeal had changed him enough to quit his squandering and do something useful for his country.
    “Anyway, I’m free now,” she said, turning back to her maid. “And we’ll be doing more for the war than simply packaging up tea bags.” She leaned to nudge her maid affectionately. “All thanks to you, dear Agnes.”
    Agnes’s face turned pink. “It was luck I found the Women’s Forage Corps leaflet.”
    “More like a miracle.” Grace had chafed at being hemmed in at Swan’s, and as more letters arrived from her brother, the desire to hurry up the war and bring him home gnawed at her.