Interlude – Grace
Grace
Okay. This was still salvageable Grace thinks as she ducks out of the thrumming rain and into the large entryway of the gatehouse at the end of the drive leading up to the Boniface estate. She glowers at her umbrella, turned inside out and quite useless, and suppresses an unladylike response. Ladies did not cuss, but if ever a situation tempted her to it this was one.
Most unseemly, but she has been so looking forward to this tour, sponsored annually by alumnus of her finishing school, Lady Carrier’s. Such care had gone into selecting just the right outfit, the right shoes, and doing her hair just right so as to make the best possible impression on the Margrave Boniface. Not to say she assumed the Margrave would be at the tour for she certainly had other more important things to do than address a group of young socialites. But if there was a chance Grace has wanted to look her best for she admires the Margrave, a woman who uses her social position and wealth for the betterment of others.
That plan was thoroughly defeated by the sudden storm that came up while Grace was making her way to the Margrave’s estate. The pretty peachy-pink polish on her nails she had painstakingly matched to the flowers in her dress remains but the dress itself is a total wash as is the pink ribbon she tied into hair that was now curling into rattails and draining to further soak her bodice.
She heaves a sigh as she peels off her sodden net gloves and attempts to ring water from them. A total wash quite literally. The destroyed umbrella gets a vigorous shake. Why did it have to fail her so?
Looking down as she is at the offending accessory she misses the approach of another to the gatehouse. They, he, must have been looking down as well for he runs directly into her knocking her back on her heels so she is left reeling her arms in a most undignified manner rather than falling to her bottom in a manner that would be far more undignified.
A hand closes around her upper arm, stopping her imminent fall. She raises her gaze. Up and then up again as she tilts her head back to take in the features of the man who was both the vehicle of her near disaster and her savior as well.
He is maybe a little older than she is and his tailored topcoat speaks of quiet wealth. There’s humor in the blue eyes that peer down at her. The mouth that curves on a chagrined grin is well-shaped and…
Grace! She shakes herself inwardly before she slips down that slippery slope. A lady simply did not notice those things. She lowers her gaze lest temptation seize her again and makes to take a step away from him.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, ever remembering to be polite. Looking up through her lashes, she adds, “I fear I would have taken a spill if not for you.”
He grins. “I think that you would have been fine if I hadn’t bowled into you. Sorry about that.”
She fights to not straighten herself as his gaze takes in her bedraggled state.
“Got caught in it?”
Taking a step back, she smooths her hair back as best she can. “I’m afraid so. And now I’m late.”
“Are you here for the tour?”
She nods. “I was really excited about it, but now I’m thinking I should probably go home.”
“Why?”
She looks at her once pretty outfit, so carefully picked out. “I’m not really…”
“Don’t worry about it. You look fine.” His smile is warm, welcoming, draws her in. “Great.”
Again she looks down and bites her lip. A blush warms her cheek and she slants another glance at him through her lashes. Is this flirting? Or is he just being polite? She wishes she has more experience with boy… men, but her parents have kept her well-sheltered with her invalid father needing her attentions and her mother seeking to protect her from vague threats she only hints at. A princess in a tower, protected into boredom.
She looks up when he says, “Share my umbrella?” then down again pointedly at her unkempt state.
“It’s fine.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Come on. You said you were looking forward to it.”
He isn’t wrong. She has been looking forward to this tour for some time. The Margrave was known to have several pieces of art that she very much wanted to see, having only seen images of them in the books her father keeps to brighten his sickroom. In fact, it was her father than insisted she come on this tour to… “live a little, my darling. Experience beauty first hand.”
The memory of her father’s voice pushing her, she says, “Okay. Thank you. Have you been before?”
His grin brightens the gray day. “A few times. What are you most looking forward to?”
“The art. I hear it is amazing.”
He pops open his umbrella and gestures for her to join him under its shelter. “Not the son?”
About to step beneath the umbrella she stops and gives him a small giggle then shakes her head in the negative. “No. I mean I know a lot of the girls are but… No.”
“He’s very eligible.”
Something wicked takes hold of her tongue. “Are you interested?”
He rears back and gives her ‘a look’ and she adds, “it’s okay if you are.”
“I’m not…” he shakes his head, a sweep of his dark hair sliding over his eyebrow, and smiles, then gestures to the drive beyond the gatehouse before moving forward with slow steps it is easy for her to keep up, “Really?”
Beneath the umbrella, rain drumming down from the sky and bouncing off the cobbles and muffling the sound of the world around them, it was like they were in a bubble, the two of them inhabiting a realm of quiet and warmth, a subtle intimacy. Isolated and embraced within an illusory cocoon, it felt natural to relax and just be.
“I don’t judge.” She smiles as she realizes she is teasing. How fun!
“Most people of your station do.”
“My station?” She tilts her head and slants him a glance before focusing once more on placing her feet carefully on the wet stones.
“The tour is from Miss Carrier’s, right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a scholarship?”
“No.” She stops. He does too. A small frown creases her brow. Where are her manners? She turns and looks up at him. “I just realized I haven’t told you my name. I’m Grace. Grace Loredan.”
Her family name is not without a certain cachet. He seems to recognize it and acknowledges it with a nod.
“Ben.” He stops at the first name and she doesn’t think to press it. If he wished to share he would and Ben is a good name, strong and masculine in compliment to his voice and manner. “So, you really aren’t about catching the Heir’s eye?”
“You seem very focused on this.”
He starts walking again and she moves to keep under the umbrella. “It’s hard to not be a little interested. There are so many reports in the papers speculating about his affairs.”
She nods. “Even though he’s been gone for moons.”
“You’d think the gossip would have died down with him gone so long. But, it just seems to feed on the mystery.”
“Where is he?” She smiles with her eyes, the sentiment coloring her words as she drops her voice to a conspiratorial level reserved for fan-shielded speculation. “Who is he with? Will he bring home a bride from some backwater? Will it be a Love Match? Will his mother, who up to this has rejected all of his choices of possible brides, accept her? Can she possibly prove to be…” she curves her fingers on quotes, “The One?”
He grins. She sees it out of the corner of her eye and something flutters in her. Her hand raises of its own volition, to touch the umbrella’s handle just above where his hand holds it, like they are to dance the waltz as couples once did with a candle clasped between them to make the most delicate of connections. They walk on like this.
“Right? You’d think people have better things to talk about.”
She shrugs. “Society is a creature that feeds on itself.”
“Well put.”
“It’s something my father likes to say, usually in response to my mother’s…” she hums, “speculating.”
“But you don’t…? Speculate?”
She sighs. “I suppose it feels intrusive. Like, why doesn’t he deserve his privacy just because he was born wealthy?”
“it’s my experience that most girls of society don’t think that way.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I guess I’m not most girls of society. For good or ill.”
She considers taking back the self-effacing statement but it was out and it wasn’t untrue. She supposes a more experienced woman might do so, if only so this fine gentleman wouldn’t think less of her, but… again… it wasn’t untrue and she is one for being true, most especially to herself.
“I wouldn’t mind catching a glimpse of him for curiosity’s sake and to see what the fuss is about, were he not off on some mysterious journey that might net him some backwater beauty, but mostly I really do want to see the art.”
“Well, good, because here we are.”
She moves her hand from the umbrella handle and holds it at her collarbone as she looks to the side, suddenly shy. Never has she had such an easy conversation with a man. She wonders if she was forward. She doesn’t know but it feels somehow familiar, the conversation they had in the intimate space beneath the umbrella in the rain. There’s a lightness inside of her chest and she feels a giggle rising inside of her. She wants to hug the feeling to her chest but that would be unseemly so instead she stands back as he steps up on the porch.
He shakes the umbrella out and snaps it closed, then he gestures at the reversed umbrella she holds, gesturing for her to hand it over. She does so and he hooks it over his arm then opens the door and enters. Poking the umbrellas in a stand, he looks around then gestures for her to join him in the foyer. “Stay here. I’ll find someone to get you a towel.”
With that he strides away. He must not have been overselling when he says he’s been here before as he takes a turn down a hall without hesitation.
Left to her own devices she folds her hands and prepares to wait for someone to find and announce her or for Ben to return with a towel. Or, she is prepared to do so but her gaze lights on a painting on the wall in the room just beyond the entryway where she stands. As if they have their own mind her feet move across the parquet floor and stop when she is within close-gazing distance of the work of art.
It is a picture of a woman lying upon a couch. Asleep, in a pose of extreme repose.
She wears a sunset red dress of an ancient drape and she is bowed so her head rests upon her arm which is bent to pillow her cheek. One of her knees is bent to rest against the back of the couch, in line with this arm, so she is curled like a relaxed kitten. This image is furthered by the gentle smile that curves her pale lips, a compliment to the softness around her eyes. The other leg sprawls at a different angle, with its bare foot poking from the drape of the skirt which is sheer enough to just make out the tone of her pale skin through it. Her brown hair flows around her, merging with the brown of the cloth draping the couch.
There is something mesmerizing about the painting. What, Grace could not be called upon to say. Just something that enters her at the eyes and suffuses her in entirety, like a pulse of sunshine that floods her and presses her skin from the inside.
The figure fills the entirety of the canvas, with just the barest indication of a white marble fireplace in the background and a flowering plant on the lintel above it. There was something intimate about the extreme focus, like the woman in the painting and her rest filled the artist’s mind and eye, that she was all that was important to him. It was a moment caught in time; a stolen intimacy.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” It’s a woman’s voice, hushed, imbued with the same reverence that Grace is feeling as she looks at the art.
Without turning her attention from the painting or really, for that matter, thinking, Grace murmurs, “Very much.” Her appreciation flavors her response.
“There are bigger pieces; grander ones. Ones, some would say, of more importance if only because of their cost or the fame of the artist. What is it about this one that you find appealing?”
“The light?” Grace tilts her head, narrows her eyes, sighs. “The textures of the skin? The peace of it all? It’s hard to quantify. It’s just beautiful to me.”
“Me too.” There’s a smile in the voice. “She looks a bit like you.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure she doesn’t.”
Languid, transfixed by the beauty of the art, the glance Grace slants to the side as she finally acknowledges the woman speaking is slow. Her eyes widen and her heart beat picks up as she takes in her companion. She has never met her, only seen her from afar at various gatherings, but there is no mistaking the Margrave Boniface.
Silver hair, just so. Cream walking suit, exactly what should be worn. Sensible shoes, but not so sensible they weren’t pretty. Understated but clearly fine jewelry, including the ring and pendant from the renowned Boniface Sapphires. And she was looking at Grace with eyes as blue as her famous sapphires. If not for the twinkle therein Grace might have been cowed by the inherent poise in her features.
As it is Grace suddenly is very aware of her bedraggled state and that she’s dripping on the parquet. Before she can fall back or stammer an apology for gawking, Ben comes back around corner with a towel. “Here you…”
The Margrave says, “Benedetto.”
He stops. Gives a subtle bow of the head. “Mother.”
Moth… Oh…
“You know this delightful girl…?”
Delight…?
“We’ve met.” His tone is dry but his smile is warm as he glances down at Grace. The twinkle in his Boniface Blue eyes says he’s aware of her sudden discomfiture.
“And…?”
“Mother this is Grace Loredan. Grace, my mother, Margrave Boniface.”
Grace gives a hesitant smile. “Ma’am.”
The Margrave turns to Ben. “Bring her to tea, Benedetto.” Another look at Grace and she removes herself.
As soon as the Margrave is around the corner Grace turns, plants her fists on her hips in a most unbecoming manner (were she focusing on such at that moment she might be mildly embarrassed at her posture) and stares up at Ben. Benedetto…
“Benedetto?”
He shrugs, “I prefer Ben.”
“So…” she bites her lip. In for a copper in for a gold. “You really aren’t interested in the heir?” A grin that is half chagrin and half self-effacing tugs at her mouth. “I feel like an idiot.”
He snorts. Literally snorts. And she finds herself charmed. “I feel like one several times a day. I appreciate the company. Towel?”
“Thank you.” She takes the towel and buffs the ends of her hair, sopping up most of the water. It’s so easy to talk to him. She could talk to him all day, but… she shouldn’t. “I should probably join the others. If you could point me in that direction?”
She looks around for somewhere to put the towel. He takes the end; she holds the other. They stand there unmoving, the connection of the towel reinforced by the way their gazes lock like magnets drawn to each other.
She can’t look away, can’t release the towel. He doesn’t either. A tentative smile curves her lips. “If you would just tell me where to find them? I’ll see my way there.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? That isn’t…” she gives a dubious look.
His grin is sheepish. Charming. So charming. “Tomorrow. Tea. Although, I warn you mother’s tea usually comes from a bottle and requires a mixer.”
She reflects the grin. “My mother’s too.”
“See, something else we have in common.”
“Something else?”
“It’s my favorite painting also. Should I call for you?”
He doesn’t pause between one thought and the next, his easy segue smoothing any discomfiture Grace has been feeling, though she does feel compelled to wrinkle her nose and say, “I’m sure she wasn’t serious.”
“My mother is many things, but likely to say something she doesn’t mean?” He lifts his brows, gives a haughty look which has about it the air of something he has seen before and has become very good at duplicating. “No. You’ll be at alcohol tomorrow and like it.”
“Okay.” Tea. Tomorrow. Margrave Boniface. Bene… Ben. Grace bites her lip and nods, tugging at the towel, emphasizing the connection between them. A broad smile stretches her mouth, most unseemly. “Okay.”
Enter The Woods 