Page 14 of The Spinster's Resolve

T he locksmith was led to the cellar door first, which yielded quickly to his skills. However, the safe proved far more challenging. After several frustrating hours, he admitted defeat.

Nevertheless, Grace and Mr Stone uncovered something significant in the cellar. Crates were stacked high, untouched, and unopened.

Taking a crowbar, Mr Stone pried one open, revealing smuggled goods—wine, silks, and more.

Heather, who had joined them, gasped in astonishment. ‘I cannot believe all these smuggled goods are here!’

Mr Stone brushed past Grace’s shoulder, she instinctively stepped back at his touch and swallowed hard, suddenly aware of every inch of herself. He took a bottle of wine from one of the crates and handed it to her. ‘We must take these to the magistrate.’

As her fingers closed around the glass, a distant memory surfaced.

She had seen an identical bottle before.

In that cave.

Her breath caught. She quickly relayed the memory to Mr Stone.

He nodded gravely. ‘Well, this is sufficient evidence to convict Gibbs, his associates, and Averton.’

Heather was called away to her dance master, leaving Grace and Mr Stone to return to the study, their eyes falling on the safe once more.

‘If only we could get inside the safe,’ sighed Grace. ‘Perhaps we should try to find a more skilled locksmith from London?’

Mr Stone rubbed his jaw, his frustration evident. ‘However, this is all pointless if we cannot find Gibbs.’

He suggested changing tactics. ‘I think we need to start interviewing some of the tenants, see what they know. What do you think?’

Grace adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses, shifting her weight. ‘I agree. I think we should start with the Trent’s. Melissa and Gibbs went missing on the same day—that cannot be a coincidence, especially now that we know he was smuggling.’

Their work for the day concluded, Grace left the study.

As Grace walked through the corridors, the familiar strains of a lively tune drifted from the great hall. She paused, unable to resist stealing a glance. Peeking in, she saw Heather gracefully executing the cotillion steps, her dance master keeping pace with surprising agility for his age. Grace tapped her foot to the rhythm, absorbed in the moment.

Heather spotted her and ran over excitedly. ‘Ah! Perfect timing! We need another couple to join the cotillion. Mr Stone, would you partner Grace?’

She reached for Grace’s shawl, but Grace resisted. A playful tug-of-war ensued, with Heather managing to claim two shawls, while Grace stubbornly clung to the last. A sudden prickle of awareness made her stop.

She turned—only to find Mr Stone watching their little skirmish with evident amusement. His gaze swept over her, making her shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. She shot Heather a glare.

‘It would be a pleasure, Miss Heather,’ Mr Stone said smoothly, his voice teasing yet firm.

He leaned against the doorway before strolling towards Grace. A sudden dryness caught in her throat as he extended his hand. His hazel eyes locked onto hers.

Her stomach fluttered.

Mr Stone looked willing, but Grace feared her emotions were becoming far too obvious.

She had to put a stop to this. ‘I must decline, Heather. I am tired and would prefer some rest.’

Noting the disappointment on her sister’s face, she softened.

‘Perhaps tomorrow?’

Without another glance at Mr Stone, she made her escape.

Back in her room, she paced the carpeted floor, Grace was furious—with herself. She was behaving like a lovesick fool! She needed to rein in her feelings before they spiralled out of control.

When he leaves, I will be the one left hurting.

‘I must stop this,’ she muttered. But how?

Avoiding him was nearly impossible. He had an uncanny ability to draw her into conversations, making himself an inescapable presence. Perhaps if she were less agreeable, less polite... yes, that would surely deter his attention.

AT DINNER, SHE PUT her plan into action, responding to questions with only monosyllabic answers. She kept her head down, focusing on her hearty meal rather than the man sitting across from her. Later, the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, and not long after, Mr Stone followed.

‘Well, Miss Heather,’ he said with a charming smile, ‘you promised us a song.’

Heather needed no further encouragement. She took her place at the pianoforte and began to play. Her voice was sweet, though she faltered at first due to lack of practice.

Grace soon became flustered when she realised Mr Stone’s eyes were on her again.

Why is he always looking at me?

She adjusted her cap, fiddled with her glasses, and pulled her shawl tighter. To avoid conversation, she picked up a book, pretending to be deeply engrossed.

It worked.

Meanwhile, Heather launched into one of her endless stories—this time about her beloved cat, Ginger.

‘And then he started bringing in slugs and dropping them on my lap! Now he’s moved on to bigger creatures—just the other day, he brought in a live mouse! The nasty thing made a dash for it and climbed into my sleeve!’

She barely paused for breath before beginning another anecdote, but Mr Stone, looking both amused and desperate, handed her a slice of cake.

‘Ooh! Thank you, Mr Stone,’ Heather exclaimed, immediately taking a large bite.

Mr Stone exhaled in relief and caught Grace’s eye, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’.

Grace suppressed a smile and remained tight-lipped. Mr Stone looked deflated and turned to Mrs Merriweather instead.

Good.

The conversation soon turned to India. ‘I wish I could go back,’ sighed Mrs Merriweather. ‘I do miss the place—the people, the food, the beauty—but not the heat.’

To everyone’s astonishment, Mr Stone responded in fluent Hindi. Mrs Merriweather’s face lit up as they engaged in an animated discussion.

Grace, fascinated, forgot her book entirely. She had never seen Mrs Merriweather look so lively. Heather, eager to join in, attempted a few phrases but failed spectacularly.

Mrs Merriweather giggled. ‘Perhaps we should stick with English, Mr Stone. We can practise Hindi later.’

Mr Stone inclined his head. ‘Perhaps now we might have the pleasure of hearing Miss Skye sing?’

Grace froze. He glanced at Heather with a knowing smile. ‘A little bird told me she has the voice of an angel.’

Grace shot a glare at her sister. ‘I... my cough, you see—’ But she was drowned out by protests. Cornered, she reluctantly took her place at the pianoforte.

As she sang, she relaxed... until she noticed Mr Stone. He had moved to the mantel, watching her with an unreadable expression. A slow, peculiar smile curved his lips.

Her heart stumbled.

‘If you have come all this way, you might as well join me,’ she called out playfully.

To her shock, he did.

His rich baritone blended seamlessly with her own voice, sending an unexpected thrill through her. When the song ended, he chuckled—a rare, boyish sound.

Her heart stumbled again.

‘Another duet!’ Heather cheered.

Flustered, Grace declined, retreating to the fireplace and, the ever-unruffled Mr Stone, for once, looked slightly embarrassed himself.

Feeling sorry for him slightly, she relented, ‘It seems as though India left its mark on you,’ Grace murmured. For the first time, Mr Stone’s composure wavered. His jaw tensed, his fingers tightening around his cup.

‘It did,’ he admitted. ‘Not all marks are visible.’

Grace wanted to ask more, but something in his expression warned her against it. Whoever he had been in India, it had changed him forever. His demeanour abruptly changed to light-heartedness as he asked, ‘Do you like to travel?’

She let out a soft laugh. ‘Impoverished spinsters do not travel much.’

Mr Stone studied her. ‘Why, Miss Skye, should anything prevent you from travelling? I should be glad to accompany you anywhere you wish to go.’ He bowed gallantly.

Grace’s breath caught. He was teasing again. Surely, he was teasing. Indulging him, she said, ‘I would love to travel to India. My mother was half-Indian. She was born there.’

Something shifted in his expression. ‘Where was she from?’

‘Hyderabad.’

He turned away sharply. ‘What was her name?’

Grace felt a cold pang of fear. Would he withdraw like the others had? ‘My mother’s name was Kitty Kirkpatrick,’ she said, her voice steady.

He spun around, his face pale with shock.

‘You do not mean to say—you are the granddaughter of Colonel James Kirkpatrick?’

Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. ‘I am.’

The room fell silent.

Mr Stone exhaled sharply.

‘I know of him,’ he said at last. ‘He converted to Islam.’

Grace was taken aback by the incredulity on his face.

‘Your uncle, William Kirkpatrick, has been trying to find you for years.’

A gasp rippled through the room.

Mrs Merriweather’s hand flew to her mouth. After Colonel Kirkpatrick passed away, his two children, Kitty and William, were brought to England by his family.

‘Uncle William travelled to India after he grew up,’ Grace whispered. ‘Mama was told he died of cholera alongside my grandmother.’

Mr Stone’s jaw tightened. ‘I am sorry to tell you this, but they lied to her. He has been trying to correspond with her for years, but I suppose her family intercepted her letters.’

Grace felt a lump rise in her throat. ‘Why would they do such a thing?’ she asked.

Mr Stone hesitated before replying, ‘Perhaps because he also converted to Islam. They may have cut him off.’

Mrs Merriweather covered her mouth. ‘This is incredible. Mr William is still alive?’

Mr Stone nodded gravely. ‘As far as I am aware, he was alive and well as recently as last year.’

For as long as she could remember, her mother, Kitty, had carried the pain of rejection.

After being brought to England, Kitty had never fully been accepted by her father’s side of the family and was cast aside by society until her marriage.

A love match , as Grace had been told— a rare and precious thing .

Grace’s father, Richard Skye, had met Kitty in Bath by chance and married her despite his family’s vehement objections.

Richard’s brother never forgave him, passing that same prejudice to his son—Charles.

But here, now, for the first time, Grace was speaking with someone who not only did not turn away at the mention of her heritage—but who had reunited her with her uncle.

A lump formed in her throat as emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Her heart felt full, a deep yearning engulfing her. Her beloved mother’s brother was alive—and searching for them.

Heather, unable to contain her excitement, immediately started to pen a letter to their Uncle William, while the other ladies dictated their additions. Not knowing that the letter would take at least six months to reach its destination.

They all talked for what felt like hours—about her grandfather, her grandmother, her mother, and her uncle. They delved into discussions of India, sharing insights and memories, comparing notes on all they had learned about the Islamic faith.

Grace was captivated.

Grace had never spoken like this with anyone. Not even her mother. She could have talked to him until morning—but propriety would not allow it.

They had learned nothing more about Mr Stone—not where he came from, not what secrets he held.

But none of that mattered. Because she had learned the most important thing of all. After years of feeling like an outsider, she had found someone like her.

A lost soul searching for something.

Searching for the truth. Grace felt euphoric as she made her way to her bedroom that night, her thoughts drifting blissfully. It felt as though she were walking on clouds. He is perfect, she thought.

SHE WAS SO LOST IN her musings that she failed to notice the maid waving frantically, trying to catch her attention.

It wasn’t until a whispered hiss of ‘Miss!’ reached her ears that she turned, startled.

There, in the dim corridor, stood Penny—the maid they had just interviewed.

‘Oh, hello, Penny. What’s the matter?’

Penny wrung her hands nervously against her apron, hesitating before she spoke.

‘Miss Skye ... I ... wanted to tell you something about Mr Gibbs and the ladies who used to come here.’