Page 17 of To Wed an Heiress
As soon as he was gone Mercy pulled the mirror from her reticule and sighed inwardly at her reflection. She had scratches on her face and was developing dark circles beneath her eyes. Coupled with McNaughton’s mummy-like ministrations, she was a sorry sight.
“You’ve been injured, Mercy,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “No one cares what you look like right now.”
Mrs. West led Ruthie away to her room. Mercy promised to come and check on her later. Ruthie only nodded again, her uncharacteristic silence worrying.
“Shall we go and see Mother?” Elizabeth asked.
No, she really didn’t want to see her grandmother right now. She wanted to go hide under the covers somewhere, or have a day or two to prepare.
Instead, she forced a smile to her face, picked up the valise, and followed her aunt.
Chapter Eight
All of the furniture at Macrory House was made by Chippendale, the information passed along by Elizabeth. Mercy didn’t know who Chippendale was, but it was obvious he was a master at carpentry. Every piece of furniture was beautifully crafted for its intended purpose.
Even the banister of the massive staircase in the middle of the house was lovely. She’d never seen anything like the various shades of carved wood twisting to follow the incline of the stairs.
Mercy gripped the valise with her left hand and the banister with her right.
“Why don’t you let one of the servants take that to your room?” Elizabeth asked, glancing at the bag.
“It’s something I’ve brought for Seanmhair,” she said.
Elizabeth didn’t ask any further questions.
At the second-floor landing, her aunt turned left and walked to the end of the corridor. There, a set of double doors stood like a wall between Mercy and her grandmother.
“I think you’ll find Mother a little changed, Mercy. These past years have been difficult for her.”
Mercy nodded, understanding. Her grandfather had died four years ago, at the start of the war. It had been up to her grandmother and her aunt to keep the farm going. In the months preceding the end of the war, their house had been burned to the ground and all their crops, such as they were, torched. They’d been left with nothing, difficult enough when one was young and resilient. But her grandmother was in her sixties.
“It’s all right, Mercy,” Elizabeth said.
No, it wasn’t, but her aunt was kind to say so. Mercy managed a smile, clutched the valise tightly in her hand, and followed her aunt inside the room.
A massive four-poster bed sat in the center of the room. The wood dome and frame were covered in royal blue silk, the fabric worked into the design. The mattress looked to be twice as thick as normal.
Two bookcases—no doubt made by Chippendale—sat on either side of the bed and held a selection of books, glass flowers, and gilded boxes.
The painting over the white fireplace was of lush flowers, the pinks, greens, and golds of the artwork echoed in the carpet and upholstered chairs.
This bedroom was the perfect backdrop for her aristocratic-appearing grandmother, who now sat in one of the wing chairs before the fireplace like a queen expecting one of her subjects.
Before the war, Mercy’s family had made an annual pilgrimage to North Carolina. Her childhood was marked by such visits. They stayed for a few weeks, and it was always with a sense of relief that they returned home.
During those visits her grandmother never lost an opportunity to lecture Mercy on various aspects of womanhood. There was such a long list of things she should or should not do that over the years she had written them down in a journal and always took care to reread her notes before leaving for North Carolina. Whenever she made a mistake, such as laughing too loud or running when she should have strolled, her grandmother didn’t criticize her. Instead, Fenella was the focus of her irritation.
“What are you teaching that girl? Do you act that way in New York?”
That had been the refrain during those childhood visits.
Mercy was her father’s daughter and because of that she could never win her grandmother’s approval.
Fenella had married James Rutherford after meeting him at The Patton in Hot Springs. Her father had brought his mother to the resort, thinking that the North Carolina spa would help the older woman’s arthritis. At the time, Ailsa and her husband had approved of the marriage, especially since James Rutherford was exceedingly wealthy. Over time, and especially in the years before the start of the Civil War, their feelings had changed. Her father was now an enemy and, by extension, so was anyone related to him.
“She has a set of standards, Mercy,” her mother had said. “She insists that everyone follow those standards.”
“Is she very unhappy?” Mercy had asked that day.
