Grace in Wonderland - Chapter 136

136. Side Story V

She must still be feeling unwell.

Grace was curled up on the bed, buried under the covers, taking a nap. Richard stood nearby, clutching his aching chest, torn with anguish.

The hypothesis that “Grace Spencer is experiencing ennui” had been disproven. However, a new hypothesis, “Grace Spencer is gravely ill,” awaited confirmation, and Richard Spencer’s left temple throbbed incessantly.

He knew nothing about medicine…

Still, Richard clumsily placed the back of his hand on Grace’s forehead and cheek to check her temperature. Perhaps it was due to Sebastian’s comments, but her face seemed warmer than usual.

If only he had studied medicine! Wasting time on useless mathematics had been a mistake. The most he could achieve was proposing the hypothesis that “Grace Spencer is experiencing ennui,” and even that had been futile.

He remembered Lady Mary Montague, who often had fevers. He could vividly recall the helpless expression of Lord Anthony Montague as he tended to her each time.

They say children take after their parents. If that were true, Richard wished he had inherited Lady Montague’s illnesses instead. Even an adopted daughter is still a daughter, and for the illness to transfer to Grace instead was unbearably cruel.

Richard carefully touched the boutonnière pinned to his jacket’s buttonhole.

There is a belief in Ingrint that objects possess a spirit. If that were true, this boutonnière would be filled with Lady Montague’s spirit.

She cherished her engagement ring above all else, never removing it from her finger. Her grandfather, who doted on his frail granddaughter, had showered her with precious jewels, but the engagement ring from her husband remained her favorite.

So whenever he touched this boutonnière, Richard silently prayed that Lady Montague would watch over Grace.

Overwhelmed by the pain, Richard could no longer bring himself to look at Grace directly. Instead, he turned to carefully examine her belongings in the bedroom. His eyes lingered on the small items imbued with Grace’s essence until he came to a halt.

Richard’s frequent comings and goings aside, the lady’s bedroom was inherently a private space. Grace Spencer mainly used the library for reading or studying, while handling personal matters in her bedroom. The belongings she had brought from Grentabridge were also kept there.

For instance, there was Grace Spencer’s diary, the very item that stopped Richard Spencer in his tracks.

Richard Spencer was a refined grand nobleman, a gentleman, and a narcissist who had never cared about others’ feelings or emotions. He had no reason to hesitate or linger before someone’s diary like this.

In the past, he wouldn’t have even realized it was a diary. Even if he had known, he wouldn’t have spared it a glance. He had never been curious about what others thought.

Moreover, for a grand nobleman to snoop into someone’s private life? It was utterly disgraceful. If necessary, he could simply order someone to extract the truth through intimidation.

But this was the diary of Grace Spencer, the woman he loved dearly. And Grace was gravely ill. Yet she was too considerate to speak of it and was suffering alone.

In that case… surely, just a little peek, a slight confirmation, wouldn’t hurt.

Come to think of it, he had once seen Grace and Theresius Wilford discussing diaries at a tea party hosted by Lady Mary Montague in Bath. Grace had mentioned that she had been keeping a diary since childhood.

What had Theresius said back then? Something about how the habit of writing diaries helps women develop their writing skills? He had shamelessly flattered and praised Grace.

How infuriating it seems in hindsight.

Back then, Richard Spencer had acted like an utter fool, exuding displeasure while Theresius Wilford clung to Grace with an air of casual confidence. Yet Richard Spencer was the ultimate victor.

If Grace had married Theresius and fallen ill as she was now…

Theresius Wilford would have mistreated her. That man had only intended to exploit Grace. Moreover, with his nature, he would have likely fathered illegitimate children elsewhere.

Could Baron Wilford of Cornwall be worse? That man was even more vile than Theresius Wilford. He had even driven away his own son. It was obvious he would have bullied and tormented Grace while hiding in his foxhole to evade Lord Montague’s notice.

How fortunate it was to rescue Grace from such a miserable life.

Therefore, to make it clear, Richard Spencer believed he had every right to check Grace’s diary. It was not out of base curiosity but rather from genuine concern for his wife’s well-being.

Richard sneaked a glance at Grace, lying on the bed. Her breathing was steady and even, her eyes closed in deep sleep. Alternating between watching his sleeping wife and the diary, Richard made up his mind and reached out.

Richard’s breathing was uneven as he left the bedroom, in stark contrast to Grace’s. He resembled a petty Gallian thief who had just stolen a silver candlestick from a cathedral.

***

Grace Spencer had been writing a diary since childhood. More precisely, she began when her mother, Annabel Gurton, left her in a cave.

It was during a despairing time when most of Aire’s population had succumbed to smallpox, and the survivors were dying of starvation. Upon realizing she had contracted the disease, Annabel isolated her daughter in a cave on the coastal cliffs, far from the village.

Grace learned to pass the time in the cave. As promised to her mother, she endured the isolation with resilience, like an Indigenous youth undergoing a rite of passage. Instead of crying, she poured her emotions into a small notebook.

Except for her time at the poorhouse, Grace had kept a diary almost daily. It wasn’t to refine a “feminine” writing style as Theresius Wilford had flattered but simply to record her days.

After Annabel Gurton vanished like smoke among countless corpses, Grace realized she had no tangible connection to recall their time together vividly. Memories faded quickly.

Thus, she needed evidence to prove the passing days. That was why Grace never neglected her diary.

Recently, Grace Spencer’s diary entries had been reduced to brief words and numbers. Apathy had overtaken her, leaving her reluctant to even pick up a pen.

Whether it was right to call her condition “apathy” was uncertain. Her mind felt foggy while her body remained tense. She felt rigid and stiff physically, but mentally, she seemed to be loosening.

Her heart would race sporadically, and a faint heat would spread through her body. At times, she craved food fiercely, but when confronted with it, her digestive system would revolt, bringing her to a standstill.

To soothe her nausea, she ordered foods she usually avoided, but they did nothing to help. Days passed with her barely managing to leave the dining room before gagging. She felt terribly guilty looking at the chef’s earnest face, knowing how much effort he put into the meals.

Most tellingly, her monthly visitor had stopped coming. It had been one month and three weeks since the expected date.

Initially, Grace hadn’t thought much of it. She attributed it to the exhaustion of marriage and the honeymoon. But as new physical symptoms appeared, doubts began to creep in.

Professor Charles Dodgson, who had taken Grace in, would occasionally leave books on women’s health on her desk. These were not topics they could discuss face-to-face, so he would discreetly deliver them when Grace was out of the room.

As a single man raising a young girl, that had likely been one of his greatest challenges. Unable to speak about such matters directly, Charles Dodgson, true to his profession, taught her through books.

Grace, ever the diligent student, absorbed Professor Dodgson’s lessons well. Thus, she had a fair degree of certainty about her current condition.

Even so…

Let’s wait just one more week. By then, everything would be clear. Was it merely an irregularity caused by fatigue, or…

Grace pressed her swelling cheeks, trying to suppress the smile threatening to break out. She then began flipping through the diary entries she had scribbled over the past few days.