Page 47 of The Mistletoe Countess
“Now you’ve really gotten my hopes up.”
He chuckled and led her through a long corridor on the second level. The cold and dark entry into the south wing seemed to seep gloom from the shadows. It probably didn’t help that her damp hair caused an added shiver. If a house could emanate a feeling, Havensbrooke exuded hints of foreboding and…loneliness. Of course that might just be Grace’s continued struggle between embracing her future and looking back at the very long distance between England and everyone she’d held dear for so long.
Electric lights gave a dim glow as they moved down a long corridor with arched doorways on each side, passing decorative tables with expen-sive vases or large paintings of vast landscapes—at one point, Grace even noticed a portrait of a dog—until Frederick finally stopped in front of one of the doors. He gave her fingers a squeeze before he knocked.
“Enter,” came the faint reply.
The first thing Grace noticed was the lighting. Candle and lantern light streamed a golden dance over the room. No electric lights. An elab-orate marble mantelpiece stood at the far end, almost barren except for two silver-framed photographs.
“I see you’ve arrived late.”
The voice pulled Grace’s attention to a chair by the fire where a pale, thin woman sat with a large book sitting atop a blanket covering her legs. She wore a simple cap and held herself as if the back of the chair wasn’t as straight as it should be. Dark eyes—housed within a pale face—narrowed as they settled on Grace, and whatever warmth Frederick’s nearness provided slipped out the top of Grace’s head.
She’d never seen such lifeless eyes. She’d envisioned them aplenty. Every time she readDracula,but their actual appearance proved more disturbing than fiction. Grace’s heart sank lower at the dreadful realization. This was her mother-in-law.
Heaven help her. Shakespeare’s Queen Gertrude may have nothing on Moriah Percy, the Dowager Countess of Astley.
“What is this I hear of you and the river?” She tapped the floor with her cane.
No “happy to see you” or “glad you didn’t drown.” No introductions.
Frederick took a slight step forward, partially shielding Grace from his mother’s view. “There was no help for it. The car lost control and landed in the river. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured, and we swam to shore—”
“Who swam?” Beady eyes landed on Grace. “You swam?”
“And I’m grateful she did.” Frederick offered. “If she hadn’t been able to swim, we would have lost Patton.”
“This is preposterous. What in the world can you mean?”
“Patton was rendered unconscious by the impact, and I couldn’t save them both.”
The woman stared at them for a full five seconds, lips parted, before she seemed to rally with another grimace, which seemed directed at Grace’s unruly hair. “And you didn’t think to make yourself suitable before pre-senting her to me?” Her voice sounded like wind scratching against the branches of trees, high-pitched and raspy. “Never mind. I am anxious to see the results of your unfortunate turn of events. Bring her forward.”
Frederick turned to Grace and offered her a tender look, buoying her spirits enough to still her trembling. Grace should have prepared herself more for meeting cantankerous mothers-in-law and less in surviving autocar accidents, because her knees suddenly started shaking.
“Mother, might I introduce you to Gracelynn Ferguson Percy. This is my Mother, Lady Moriah, Dowager Countess of Astley.”
The woman cringed at the introduction, as if the reminder of the title relegated to her after her son’s marriage added fresh sting.
“Come into the light, girl.”
Frederick stayed by her side, which gave Grace a little sense of support as she stepped closer to the spindly looking matriarch. Oh dear, she had the overwhelming desire to search her mother-in-law’s room for a magic mirror that talked of the fairest of them all. Grace’s eyes widened. Was it possible her mother-in-law knew how to tamper with automobiles?
The woman perched on her throne and took her time examining Grace from bottom to top. “What happened to your hair?”
Grace raised her fingers to her head. “Well, my hair came loose in the river.”
“Not your style, your color.”
“My…my color?”
“Please tell me the firelight is playing tricks on my vision. It cannot be that red, can it?”
“There’s nothing wrong with her hair, Mother. It’s a beautiful color. Unique, like the bearer.”
“Don’t speak sentimentally, Son. It proves you’re weak.”
Grace’s spine stiffened at the affront to sweet Frederick. This woman definitely harbored a magic mirror somewhere, possibly a poisonous apple too.
