WHEN GRACE PRESENTEDherself to Charles and the prospective octogenarian groom, her appearance had the desired effect.
Charles sputtered in shock, while the groom looked visibly disappointed. Red-faced, Charles stammered, ‘Wh-why, c-cousin, you look so altered!’ He could not help but state the obvious. Turning to his companion, he introduced them, ‘My Lord Bainbridge... m-my cousin, Miss Grace Skye.’ He eyed her with open confusion.
Grace worried that if he stood too closely, he might see through the make-up. She coughed loudly and declared, ‘You must speak up, Cousin. My hearing is not what it once was, you see. Since the cough started, I find it difficult to hear...’
Wildly inventing new symptoms, she fell into a clumsy curtsy and coughed dramatically into her handkerchief, sending well-placed spittle in his direction.
Charles immediately yanked out his handkerchief, wiping his greasy face and hair before patting his dandified polka-dot yellow cravat. A notorious hypochondriac, he recoiled in horror—just as Grace had predicted.
She smiled inwardly as he hastily retreated to the far side of the room and shoved one of Heather’s cats off the seat. The cat hissed and growled in displeasure before darting between Grace’s feet for refuge.
‘Oh, Cousin, I have been so ill,’ she moaned. Theatrically flailing her arms, she added, ‘Since Father passed, I have been so much worse.’ She turned to Lord Bainbridge. ‘Melancholy runs in the family, you know...’
She ended with another loud cough, this time aimed into the room at large.
Lord Bainbridge withdrew as fast as his arthritic legs would allow, collapsing onto the sofa beside Charles. ‘Is this melancholy catching, Charles?’ he asked uncertainly.
Grace answered before Charles could.
‘Oh no, my lord, I am fairly certain it is only hereditary... but then again...’
She paused for dramatic effect—Betty would be so proud of her performance. ‘Our cow, Bessie, succumbed to it after her calf died... but I am sure that was just a coincidence.’
Grace suppressed a smile. The calf was alive and well, but the gentlemen did not need to know that. She was not supposed to be enjoying this as much as she was.
Lord Bainbridge’s eyes widened in terror. ‘A dangerous condition, indeed!’
Then, in a very audible whisper to Charles, he said, ‘You promised me a beauty, not this old sickly maid, Charles! How do you expect me to secure a male heir with her? I do not want any defects in my children. And by the looks of her, she seems far too old to bear any children.’
Turning back to Grace with a forced smile, he remained oblivious to the fact that she had heard every word.
Charles, eager to salvage his ambitions, replied in an equally loud whisper, ‘I had no idea she would look so different in a few short years...’
His sycophantic nature had always grated on Grace, but she schooled her features to appear oblivious to his rudeness whilst he continued to grovel.
‘I... I had no idea, my lord. I apologise profusely for this blunder. If I had but known, I would not have brought you here.’
His eyes flicked towards the door.
‘She does have a sister... perhaps—’
A calculated gleam flashed in his eyes.
Dread coursed through Grace.
Heather had just turned sixteen, and hell would freeze over before she let Charles arrange her sister’s marriage to this man.
Pre-empting what would come next, Grace acted first.
‘I would have loved for you to meet Heather today. She was looking forward to seeing you, Charles. Her manners may not be quite as polished, being childlike still, but she has an enthusiastic and loving heart,’ she interjected as loudly and shrilly as possible.
Lord Bainbridge cringed at the sound of her voice but asked hesitantly, ‘Is she here? I would like to see her...’
He, too, peered towards the door.
‘Alas, she must have forgotten you were coming today and has gone to the fields to play with her friends,’ Grace lied smoothly.
‘But she has turned sixteen—she cannot still be playing like a child?’ Charles asked incredulously, darting a nervous look at Lord Bainbridge.
