Grace in Wonderland - Chapter 78

78. Turbulent Waters

“Y-Young Earl, y-your words are too harsh.”

“Too harsh? Me?”

Grace said, and Richard asked back as if he couldn’t believe it.

“T-there were circumstances. E-everything might have hidden stories behind it.”

“So, you’re saying you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Why… why are you treating me so cruelly? Y-you know I’m not the one you’re truly angry at.”

“Then who should I be angry at? Should I chase after my late aunt and vent my anger on her?”

“Y-you’re angry at yourself!”

The raging torrent suddenly came to a halt. All three people in the room fell silent.

Night was approaching. The unlit room was enveloped in shades of gray. Objects in sight were blurred, but the unresolved emotions remained sharp, stabbing at each other relentlessly.

“N-no matter how low my status is, or how insignificant I am, even if I st-stutter, y-you have no right to treat me this way.”

“…What are you saying?”

Richard Spencer was momentarily bewildered by her unexpected self-deprecation. Though others had openly or secretly whispered such things, it was the first time Grace Gurton herself had listed her faults so pointedly.

“Y-you’re not idle enough to w-waste time like this, Young Earl.”

“Now, listen here, Miss Gurton—”

Caught somewhere between resentment and resignation, Grace flapped about like a pitiful bird with torn wings. She could understand Richard Spencer’s pain, but she was suddenly struck by his arrogance and self-righteousness.

“Y-you’re wasting the precious time you could spend bidding farewell to Madam.”

Her voice dripped onto the still waters, creating ripples that distorted the surface. The water no longer reflected Richard Spencer’s face generously.

“I-I’ll be leaving now.”

Grace stood from her chair, walked over to Mary Montague, and kissed her forehead as Anthony Montague had done. Then, without a word, she disappeared from Richard and Lancelot’s sight.

Night fell. Black darkness engulfed the room.

***

“As I’ve thought before,”

Lancelot Spencer struck a match to light a candle. A large, elongated shadow fell behind Richard, who was hunched over.

“She’s truly not an ordinary woman.”

Since Grace left the room, Richard hadn’t said a word. Having unleashed his intense anger in such a short time, everything now felt futile.

He had never vented his anger so openly before. As a nobleman with polished manners ingrained in him, he had always kept his emotions concealed. But this time, it wasn’t about maintaining nobility or decorum.

Upon hearing Sebastian’s urgent message about Mary Montague’s critical condition, Richard hadn’t even taken the time to ready a carriage. He hadn’t dressed properly either. He had rushed to the stables, mounted the nearest horse, and whipped it relentlessly as he rode to Chelsea.

She hasn’t passed yet. Please wait a little longer. Please let me say my final goodbyes. Please, just this once.

Perhaps because he was a sinner who hadn’t confessed for ten years, his desperate prayers went unanswered. The moment he stepped into Lady Montague’s bedroom, no one had to tell him. He could feel it—the acrid, oppressive scent of death that clung to the air.

He had no time to face his grief directly or to fully process his pain. Instead, he was consumed by rage at being the only one who hadn’t known about her condition. The thought that he alone was unaware, that he alone had failed to notice, was unbearable.

He didn’t even realize he was treating Grace Gurton like a madman. She had dared to hide the truth from him and had lied. Upon discovering that, he lost control.

Perhaps it was because he had held a minimum trust in Grace Gurton, believing she wouldn’t conceal such a significant matter from him. Richard had never trusted anyone without reason before.

Grace Gurton was a strange woman. She started with complete distrust and drew out absolute trust. Because Richard Spencer came to like her, it naturally turned out that way.

Perhaps it would have been better if he hadn’t realized it.

In Lydon, in Bath, there had been plenty of opportunities for her to tell him the truth. When Lady Montague collapsed, when she visited the mansion, when they happened to meet in the villa garden, when they stopped by the Avon River together—there were many chances to correct her lies. By word, by letter, by messenger, she could have hinted at the truth in countless ways.

Even when he didn’t know what his feelings for Grace Gurton were, even when he denied them, he had never doubted her. Unlike himself, he trusted her quickly. Had it been anyone else, it would have been impossible.

Looking back, that was the case. Unlike his usual self, he hadn’t investigated her properly or scrutinized her actions. He trusted Grace Gurton’s words and actions based on mere feelings, not only regarding Lady Montague’s affairs but everything else as well.

Because he liked her, wanted her, and wanted to be loved by her. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t in his right mind.

“We both got hit by Miss Gurton, didn’t we?”

Lancelot chuckled softly and added, “That day, the day Eleanor left the villa in Bath, Grace Gurton advised me to take responsibility for my emotions. Her insight was remarkable. Even though she hadn’t talked to me much, she managed to see through my essence.”

“……”

“She told you this: ‘You’re angry at yourself.’”

“If you’re going to spout nonsense, get out. I don’t want to hear it.”

Richard, sitting on the edge of the bed opposite Lancelot, lifted the hand he hadn’t dared to place on Lady Montague earlier and gently touched her cold cheek.

“She even dared to interrupt the words of none other than Richard Spencer, the Young Earl.”

But Lancelot continued speaking without hesitation.

“And she continued to interrupt the Young Earl’s words.”

Richard, irritated, didn’t bother to respond.

Yes, that was true. Grace Gurton had the bad habit of cutting off the Young Earl’s words without hesitation.

He had let it slide. Even though such rudeness, something even queens didn’t commit, was tolerated from a woman like her, he had let it pass. He wasn’t in his right mind.

“You like her, don’t you?”

“What?”

“I knew from Bath.”

Lancelot had a keen sense of reading the atmosphere. Sticking close to the Countess had made such things visible to him whether he wanted it or not. It was a talent developed by a son who lived clinging to his mother’s mercurial moods.

Compared to the Countess, who could go from shouting to cajoling dozens of times a day, Richard Spencer in Bath seemed exceptionally unstable. Like a child unable to manage his emotions, he didn’t know what to do.

“In the Pump Room, you couldn’t stand it when Eleanor tried to say something to Grace Gurton and stepped in yourself.”

It was the first time Lancelot had seen Richard do such a thing. Despite having a fiancée, he stood up for another woman.

Richard wasn’t the type to go out of his way for someone. Even if he had, he wasn’t the kind to show it openly.

“I’ll make sure to pay back what upset Eleanor back then.”

Lancelot murmured quietly, and Richard scoffed. His gaze remained fixed on the serene face of the late Mary Montague.

“So that’s why I told you Edmund Beaufort was spending time with Grace Gurton afterward.”

“That was unnecessary, Lancelot.”

Richard remembered that day as well. The day he missed his ‘accidental’ encounter with Grace Gurton in the garden, Lancelot had been unusually chatty.

Because of that, he had rushed to the Pump Room, evading Sebastian’s watchful eyes, and had pulled the woman being mocked out of there, suggesting they be ‘friends.’ He had judged Grace Gurton to be someone trustworthy.

Friends. How foolish, not knowing she was deceiving him all along.

“But Richard.”

Lancelot tilted his head slightly and looked at Richard. Furrowing his brows slightly, he asked, “What was that about? Why did Grace Gurton say that to you?”