Page 76 of The Mistletoe Countess
Like Father.
The thought slithered to life as a whisper. Frederick shook his head. No, ridiculous to even compare the two. Father had been sick for weeks. Surely they couldn’t be linked. Especially with two years between them.
“Have you ever researched how much it would cost to gather coal from Creswell to provide for our glassworks? There’s a chance we could make it viable again, I think.”
Frederick’s frown dissolved at Grace’s chatter as they moved toward the east wing, her arm tucked through his. She’d talked of little else but improvement ideas since meeting the tenants of Havensbrooke. From hydraulic-powered water gardens inspired by her meeting with the gristmill workers to orphan education encouraged by her talk with Astlynn Commons’s schoolteacher, Mrs. Jones, her creativity knew no bounds. Just the sound of her happy monologue calmed the uncertainty in his heart as they strode toward the darkened corner of the house.
“Your mind doesn’t stop, does it?”
“I’ve watched Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock use the resources available at their estate to help create a self-sustaining property, and now I’m free to put some of my own imaginings into action. Oh, the possibilities of an evolving plan!” She chuckled. “Can you imagine all the questions I asked the dear, long-suffering couple?”
He could. And envisioned the illustrious couple thriving off Grace’s curiosity and passion.
“I spent nearly two hours with Mr. Whitlock, asking questions about orchards the day before our wedding.”
He released his hold on her to reach for the door. “Orchards?”
“Oh yes, they’re a wonderful means of income. Speaking of income.” She looked up at him with those curious eyes dancing. “I wonder why the glassworks were left in disrepair. Plenty of tenants are still interested in working there, and it’s not so broken, from what Mr. Lark says.”
He pulled his attention away from the door. Why had Edward stopped the glassworks? Or reduced the hours of workers at the gristmill? It was almost as if he wanted to cripple the estate.
“Frederick?” Grace slipped her hand in his, bringing him back to the present. “We can wait another day if you need more time to garner your courage. It can’t be an easy feat to return here.”
He shook off the melancholic turn of his thoughts and hardened his resolve. Grace was right. If something sinister led to his brother’s death, then it was his duty to bring the truth to light, even if it meant facing possible ghosts from his past. He gave her hand a squeeze, attempting a bit of levity. “What do you say to a game of word making after our morning excursion?”
“Word making? Against me?” Her countenance brightened and chased his darker thoughts to the shadows. “You are very brave.”
He took a taste from her pink lips and pushed open the door to the east wing. The sitting room emerged with every bit of otherworldliness he’d imagined. Streams of sunlight filtered like lamplight through the half-shuttered windows, blending into grays and golds. The quiet—as cold as the morning he’d last entered the room—chilled him, stalling his steps.
More than just the memories of his brother’s death, these spaces held a storm of recollections branding him a failure. The overwhelming sense of responsibility and disappointment nearly froze him to the spot, but Grace drew him forward and threw back the window shutters so that the full rays of morning bathed the room with light.
“There! Now it’s much more cheerful.” She turned and examined the room, her nose wrinkling. “But yellow?” She offered Frederick an apologetic tilt of her head, drawing him further from his introspection. “Don’t you think a sitting room should have a rich, dark color? Or even a pale blue?”
“This was called the Morning Room.”
“Oh!” She reexamined the space.
“But I’m not fond of yellow either.”
“In flowers it’s positively glorious, but for a room?” She shook her head. “The sunshine should be able to do its work without competition.”
She moved without the gravity of the past, flitting from one space to the next, dusting off the awkwardness. As he watched her, his pulse calmed, his breath settled. He wasn’t alone to face his ghosts anymore. He had Grace.
“What was your brother like?” Grace examined trinkets on a writing desk near the back of the room. “Was he burdened by the weight of this land like you?”
Frederick offered her a half smile. “He was never burdened by much at all, which is why this letter is so peculiar.”
Grace tossed a glance over her shoulder, her pale green day dress almost fairy-like in the morning gold. “From that response, you’ve confirmed my suspicions.”
“And what were those?”
She stepped close again and touched his arm. “That somehow you’ve carried the weight of firstborn all your life, even before you inherited the title. And your family never valued the strong and kind person you are or the love you have for your legacy.”
He tipped his head toward her, breathing in the life she brought into these dead rooms. “You think I’m strong enough for this?”
“Of course I do, but not only I. God doesn’t go about placing people haphazardly into their stories. He must think you are strong enough too.”
He pressed a kiss to her soft cheek. “Stronger now, I think.”
