Not by Sight (5 page)

Grace glanced down and saw she’d nearly sewn her finger with the needle.

“You really believe it will happen?” Lucy asked, blinking. “We’ll change the world?”

“And everything in it.” Grace nursed her finger, then resumed her sewing.

“At the slaughterhouse I had to butcher animals every day, when all I wanted was to love them.” Lucy made another stitch. “When I was a child, we had a cat come around our flat. She was gray and white and had a long ringed tail.” Lucy tossed her a wistful smile. “She was also starving, so one day I hid her inside my coat and brought her into our kitchen. I fed her scraps my mum had tossed into the waste bin. Every day the cat came back and I fed her. I even named her Misty, because I’d first found her on a foggy November day.”

Grace continued working the treadle. “What happened to her?”

“My father came home early one afternoon and caught me with Misty. I begged him to let me keep her.” She raised listless eyes to Grace. “But he’d been drinking.”

Lucy tugged hard at the heavy thread to tighten the slack in her stitch. “After he knocked me around a bit, he took the cat outside. I ran after him, but he tossed her into the street, right under the wheels of a passing greengrocer’s delivery truck.”

“That’s terrible,” Grace said, frowning. How could anyone have such a cruel father?

“I had other animals.” Lucy kept to her sewing. “A dog, a pigeon, even had the old draft horse at the livery on the end of our street. They were pets my father never knew about.” She made another stitch. “After Misty, I never brought one home.” She glanced up. “When you spoke about women being vet . . . vet . . .”

“Veterinarians?”

Lucy nodded, and her gaze took on a faraway look. “I’ve always felt more comfortable with animals.” She refocused on Grace. “I want to heal them, not hurt them.”

“You can.” Grace reached for more burlap from the stack. “Don’t ever give up on your dream, Lucy. One day you
will
have the freedom to be whatever you want to be.”

“I hope so, Grace.”

“I know so.” And for Lucy’s sake, Grace fervently prayed she was right.

Grace awakened the next morning without the aid of Agnes. Because sewing sacks was much easier than digging ditches, she’d had the energy to wash and press both uniforms
and
have a bath in the delightful cast-iron tub the night before. Afterward she’d taken up her place by the window, hoping for another glimpse of the tall stranger at the manor.

He had appeared, pacing along the balcony. Then just as before, the man retreated into the darkness of the house.

Was it Lord Roxwood—the Tin Man? Grace mused as she finished dressing and headed downstairs. And if so, might she request an interview with him for her upcoming story?

She arrived in the kitchen to find the others already seated around the table, tucking into breakfast. Agnes offered her an approving smile.

“Well, look who’s arrived . . . and without a wrinkle.”

Grace ignored Clare’s remark. Taking her place at the table, she spooned a bowl of porridge from the pot and selected a slice of toast and a hard-boiled egg.

“Good morning,” she called to Lucy, still buoyed by their inspiring talk yesterday.

Instead of greeting her, Lucy flashed a look of chagrin. Grace
paused in slathering apple butter onto her toast to scan the other faces at the table. Each seemed preoccupied with breakfast—except for Mrs. Vance, who frowned at her.

“Is something wrong?”

“We’ll discuss it later, Mabry.”

Alarmed by the gravity of her supervisor’s tone, Grace carefully set down her knife. Had there been another air raid on London? “Please, Mrs. Vance, I wish to know now.” She tried to sound composed as all eyes focused on her.

Mrs. Vance said finally, “It’s about the sacks.”

Grace blinked. “The burlap sacks? But . . . I sewed four dozen of them yesterday.”

“A dozen of which you stitched completely closed.” Mrs. Vance expelled an irritated breath. “You obviously weren’t paying attention, Grace. Now the stitches must be removed, and we simply don’t have the time or the resources to fix such mistakes.”

Grace heard a snigger of laughter from across the table. Heat bathed her sunburned cheeks. She’d been so consumed with talk about suffrage and turning the burlap under the needle, she hadn’t realized she’d sewn a few too many seams. “Let me repair them, Mrs. Vance. I’ll work late—”

“No, I’ll assign the task to someone else.” Mrs. Vance tossed her napkin on the table. “I’m putting you on report, Mabry. I don’t like doing it, but every woman must pull her weight.” Her tone gentled as she added, “You know, Grace, it might be you’re better suited for another purpose. There’s no shame in reconsidering your position with the Women’s Forage Corps.”

“No! Please, I can do this.” Grace darted a glance at Agnes, silently willing her help. They had only just arrived, and already she was being asked to leave.

Agnes took her cue. “Mrs. Vance, it’s my fault Miss . . . Grace is having a difficult time of it. I promised I’d help her when we
got here, but I’ve done a poor job.” She straightened to face Mrs. Vance. “Ma’am, if she leaves, then I feel I should go with her.”

Seeing her maid’s determined look, Grace felt a surge of affection.

The rest of the women at the table seemed to hold their breath. Mrs. Vance said, “Seems you’ve got a champion, Mabry. And Agnes does the work of two. One more chance is all you’ll get. Make certain you do the job right the first time.” Then her supervisor turned to the others. “We work together in this gang, so if Grace fails, we all fail. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused, quickly ducking their heads and resuming breakfast.

“Mr. Tillman tells me the pigs are ready for the butcher,” Mrs. Vance said, looking back at Grace. “Since he’s indisposed—” she paused, leaving Grace to recall how the farmer had sprained his ankle—“he wants us to take them in the cart to the town butcher.”

“Oh, yes!” Grace was eager to redeem herself. “I’ll gladly drive them.”

Mrs. Vance nodded. “We’ll also need to load the animals onto the cart,” she said, casting another glance at the others. “I realize it’s not what you signed up for, but the WFC will help with the task. Once those new Land Army girls arrive, we can’t have them showing us up, now, can we?”

“No, ma’am,” said Becky, and the others smiled.

Only Clare sat with arms crossed, wearing a sour expression. “We can thank Duchess here for the extra duty, since she leaves shovels lying about for farmers to trip over.” She stared at Grace. “It must be difficult learning to take responsibility for yourself and your belongings for a change.”

“Enough, Danner,” Mrs. Vance said sharply. “And once you’ve helped to load the pigs, you can go into the village and begin repairing those sacks.”

That drew a huff from Clare. “You’re certain you can do
this, Mabry?” Mrs. Vance said, her brow furrowing at Grace. “It’s your last chance.”

Grace raised her chin. Driving horses was second nature to her. She couldn’t possibly fail. “I won’t disappoint you, Mrs. Vance.”

“Watch and learn, Duchess.” Clare held up a long wooden stick for Grace’s inspection. Then she wheeled away to join Becky inside the pen. Together the two girls used their sticks to tap at the sides of a large snorting pig, driving the animal up a gangway and into a cage already hoisted onto the back of the cart.

Relieved to simply watch the operation, Grace marveled at their ability. Agnes made her proud as well, working with Lucy to herd and capture five more of the ugly beasts.

Once a dozen pigs were penned, Mr. Tillman hobbled toward Grace on a makeshift crutch. He gave her instructions on how to reach the stockyard of the butcher, Mr. Owen. “He’ll unload the pigs, so don’t do anything. Just return my cart in one piece after he’s finished, understood?”

Grace bristled. “I can do that, Mr. Tillman.”

She heard him harrumph as she clambered up onto the cart’s bench seat. Mrs. Vance approached as she took up the reins. “Are you comfortable doing this alone, Mabry? I’d send another with you, but the ditch needs to be finished and we’ve another fence—”

“I’m fine, really,” Grace said, adding in a low voice, “and since Clare must take the time to fix my mistake with the sacks, it’s the least I can do.”

She urged the pair of horses forward, and soon the cart lumbered along the dirt track parallel with the estate. Behind her, the pigs grunted and squealed noisily in their cage. She gripped the reins and focused on the task before her. Occasionally she
sucked in a breath as the animals shifted their heavy weight, causing the cart to list to one side.

Roxwood Manor came into view. Grace looked toward the balcony, hoping for another glimpse of the reclusive man who lived there. It stood empty. Her gaze wandered to the lush green lawns sloping gently upward toward the house, and the rose garden filled with clusters of white, red, and orange blooms. Such beauty . . .

As the team rounded the corner beyond a large hawthorn bush, she saw the gatehouse. At the same moment, the pigs jostled the cart and Grace lost her balance. Grabbing at the edge of the wooden bench seat to steady herself, she caught a splinter through her fabric gloves.

“Ow,” she muttered and reproached herself for having left her heavier gloves in her haversack upstairs. Pulling to a halt at the gatehouse, she set the brake and climbed from the cart. She turned to the noisy pigs squirming in their cage. “I’ll be just a minute.”

Her search for the gloves proved fruitless. After she’d rummaged through her own bag, she wondered if Agnes kept an extra pair in hers. Passing by the window, Grace made a quick check on the pigs below—and thought she glimpsed a beige uniform, along with the glint of metal. Was it the brass FC badge they wore on their shoulder strap?

She leaned out to get a better look, but saw nothing except the cartload of noisy animals. Her pulse thrummed. Mrs. Vance would sack her on the spot to find her dawdling upstairs when she should be on her way to the butcher.

Grace hurried to Agnes’s bed and grabbed up her maid’s haversack. She began searching inside for a pair of heavy gloves when she spied a photograph.

The image took her by surprise. An older woman and adolescent-aged girl stood outdoors beside a barbed-wire fence—a
farm, perhaps?—against a backdrop of snowy mountains and thick forests. It might have been winter but for the white flowers in the grass at their feet. Spring or summer then. Both females wore white shirtwaists and light-colored skirts and had the same dark hair and soulful eyes as her maid.

Agnes had never shown her a picture of her family, as these two undoubtedly were.

Feeling guilty for prying, and worried Mrs. Vance might find her here, Grace hastily returned the photograph to the bag and abandoned her search for gloves. Outside, she was relieved to see only the horses patiently grazing on a bit of grass. She walked toward the rear of the cart, wondering what had caught her eye earlier . . .

The sight of the empty cage made her gasp. Grace heard squealing and whipped around to see a dozen pigs tearing across Roxwood’s lawn. Panicked, she ran around to the back of the cart and spied the opened latch. The gangway had been let down.

“
Noooo!
” she cried in disbelief—then saw the flower pendant lying in the grass beside it. Realization struck. “
Claaare!
”

Grace scooped up the necklace and glanced wildly about the gatehouse grounds. The woman was nowhere in sight.

By now several of the four-legged demons were headed toward Roxwood’s gardens. With a yell, Grace took up the chase, alternately shouting at them to stop and muttering curses at Clare. She envisioned her demise in the WFC. After the others made her a laughingstock, she’d be forced to resign and return to London. Da would follow through on his threat and send for Aunt Florence until Clarence Fowler could return from America to wed her.

A sob tore from her throat as she observed two of the pigs foraging in Lord Roxwood’s rhododendrons. Another stood just a few feet in front of her, uprooting one of his prized rosebushes.

“Stop!” she shrieked, and made to throw herself bodily onto the culprit. The pig was faster, causing Grace to slide front first into the mud of a wet garden.