Grace suppressed a groan. “Understood.”
“Understooddoesn’t mean you have plans to follow those proprieties,” Samantha replied knowingly. Her hazel eyes were wide and observant; her expression also implied that she was awaiting a verbal promise that Grace would abide by the social parameters.
Grace let out a long sigh. As soon as she released the breath, she held up a hand. “I know, no sighing. Drat, this is going to be a disaster. I even breathe wrong.”
Samantha reached across the carriage and patted her hand. “You do far more things right than you do wrong. Focus on the ways you succeed, not your failures. We all fall short in one area or another, but when those areas become our focus, we lose ourselves.” She spoke with the sage wisdom of someone twice her age as she gently retracted her hand.
Grace twisted her lips. “Must you always be right?”
The viscount chuckled.
Samantha cast him an amused gaze. “I’m not always right. He can most certainly attest to that!”
To his credit, the viscount didn’t reply or offer any proof of her statement, and again Grace found herself the focus of the conversation. “I’m still awaiting your promise,” Samantha encouraged.
And that was the truth of it. Samantha had the patience of Job and the appearance of an angel. She always encouraged, rather than discouraged. It was impossible to be cross with her, or to be offended by her insistence that Grace abide by any of the rules they had set about. It was irritating at times, and at others as comforting as hot tea on a chilly day.
Today it was of the irritating variety, but that spoke more of Grace’s disposition than Samantha’s. Regardless, Grace nodded. “I promise. I’ll do my best to observe all the proprieties required of a lady of quality.”
“Thank you. And I will always be in the wings coaching you through it all; you are not alone.” Samantha nodded.
The carriage jostled them a bit as it hit a rut in the road, then turned left down a different street. Grace glanced back out the window, the condensation dripping down and making small rivulets in the glass, distorting the view further. She longed to wipe the moisture away with her glove, but she was afraid to get her gloves dirty—just another confinement of society.
India and Egypt were looking more and more welcoming, even with their suffocating heat. At least there she didn’t have to wear gloves.
“We’ll arrive shortly,” the viscount announced, glancing to the window and dismissing the view as overly familiar.
Sure enough, within a few minutes the carriage paused, rolled forward a few more feet, then came to a stop. The carriage wobbled slightly as the coachman stepped from his perch. A footman opened the carriage door, causing light, mist, and the scent of smoke to swirl into the cab. Grace’s eyes strained to absorb all the details of the view. She waited impatiently as Samantha alighted from the carriage, and then eagerly offered her hand to the footman so that she might disembark as well.
The first thing she noticed was the trees. They towered over the walkway, creating a canopy over the houses that lined the street. As her gaze lingered down the road, she noted the boxwoods that lined the front of each residence. It was orderly, it was manicured.
It wasn’t natural.
But then again, what had she been expecting? This was a cultured city, and she could take a lesson from the perfectly curated vegetation. She was a wild rose, but she was being planted in London and as such, needed to adapt to her environment. She could do it; she would do it. There wasn’t any challenge she had backed down from, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now.
“Come.” The viscount gestured to the front entrance of his London home, and as they approached the door swung open, revealing a butler younger than any butler she had ever before seen.
He stood stiffly straight, his eyes forward as if soldiering the front door and preparing to meet his commanding officer. Grace studied him. He couldn’t be much older than she, but much taller. His shoulders appeared too wide for his lean frame, and she averted her eyes as they approached the door.
“Thank you, John.” The viscount nodded, earning a bow that was snapped in place like a salute. “Allow me to introduce my wife and ward.” The viscount gestured to Samantha and Grace.
Grace kept her eyes from going wide. Even she knew that it wasn’t common to make introductions to the help.
John—she’d never heard a butler with such a normal name—turned his gaze first to Samantha and gave a sharp bow, then turned to Grace, executing the same greeting without a word. His eyes were the color of rich earth, and utterly unreadable.
Grace nodded in greeting, and then followed her guardians into the well-appointed house. The three steps to the door led into a glistening marble foyer. The tall ceilings gave an open feeling that was oddly in contrast to the misty and gloomy outdoors. A person started toward them from the long hallway, and as she grew closer Grace noted the beauty of the woman in housekeeper’s clothing. She couldn’t have been more than forty and five, but she carried herself with a dignity that was more quality than help. Grace noticed her warm smile, and felt a shiver of curiosity. Never before had she seen such a lovely housekeeper. Granted, she hadn’t been around any London residences, but she rather thought of the grander stations of butler and housekeeper as elderly staff members, dignified by the age of the person holding the position.
“Ach, Mrs. Marilla!” The viscount gave a warm greeting to the housekeeper, and Grace stood back to watch the interaction with interest.
“My lord.” The housekeeper curtseyed loyally, and her gaze turned to Samantha with delight. “And this is your lovely wife. I must say the entire staff is ever so happy for you! May I offer my personal congratulations, along with those of the staff.” She curtsied to Samantha, clearly pleased.
Samantha stepped forward and nodded kindly. “Thank you.”
“And this is Miss Iris Grace Morgan, my ward.”
Grace stepped forward, nodding her head slowly to try and pretend at possessing more decorum than she actually had, even if it was just to a servant. “If you wouldn’t mind, I prefer to be called by my middle name, Grace. And it’s lovely to meet you.”
Samantha cast her an approving smile. She might not be able to curtsey well, but at least she could nod without ill effect. If only she could nod to the rest of the London ton, but she had a feeling that a well-executed nod would be more offensive than a poorly executed curtsey.
