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hunched back, but even the moon’s brightness didn’t offer that kind of detail. He did seem tall, at least in proportion to the railing he leaned against. Grace watched him several seconds before another animal’s cry sounded to her right, and she instinctively turned.
    When she looked back to the balcony, the man was gone.
    Had she seen someone . . . or did the moonlight play tricks on her imagination?
    Closing her journal, she returned to bed and burrowed beneath the blanket, still musing over the man she thought she’d seen. Then she rolled onto her side, and her thoughts went to Clare and her earlier taunts.
    Grace punched at her feather pillow. She was determined to start afresh the next day. She would show Clare Danner she was made of sturdy stock. Despite a more refined upbringing, she could work just as hard as the rest of them.
    She thought of all Patrick Mabry had achieved through the sweat of his brow, building up a lucrative tea empire, owning Swan’s, and the planned expansion of several tea rooms throughout London. She and her father may have their differences in convention, and both were more strongheaded than either cared to admit, but Grace was his daughter. And Mabrys did not give up.

3
    Grace had never been so miserable in all her life.
    She was sorely tempted to return to the gatehouse and pack her bags for London. She straightened instead, stretching her screaming back muscles, then pulled away her hat to wipe at the perspiration beading along her brow.
    Digging ditches hadn’t been advertised in the leaflet. Grace recalled her tour of the fields with Mrs. Vance the previous day. Seeing how the sun gleamed against the ripening fields, she’d imagined herself gently leading a horse-drawn team across verdant pastures, feeling the day’s warmth against her shoulders. Not breaking her back manning a shovel!
    Becky was supposed to have helped her, but she got called away at the last minute to mend fences—Clare’s assignment with Agnes. Grace fumed, wondering if Miss Danner had removed Becky on purpose.
    She replaced her hat and then removed her gloves. As she flexed her fingers, she noted the blisters already formed against her reddened palms. Her poor hands had never ached so much. The heat beating down on her managed to scorch her exposed skin, and she could feel the sting of sunburn against her noseand cheeks while sweat trailed down the side of her face. And the mud . . .
    It covered her from head to toe. Grace shifted, trying to ignore the feel of her dirty, sweat-soaked uniform clinging to her skin. Da would be shocked to see her in this condition, and in fact might not recognize her at all.
    She leaned against the shovel and stared out at the acres of grass. This kind of work was a far cry from driving ambulances or packaging tea bags at Swan’s, she thought morosely. Soon they would begin harvest. Agnes had warned the workload would be much heavier than at the training farm.
    Had Grace been fooling herself to think she could succeed in this endeavor? It wasn’t even noon and she felt ready to collapse. She looked at the ditch where so far she’d dug only a few feet of trench. Closing her eyes, she tried to swallow past the knot in her throat. She wanted desperately to do her part, to help Colin, but maybe she was completely out of her element.
    The mere thought roused her determination. She replaced her gloves and grabbed up the shovel. With her jaw set she resumed digging at the muddy earth, praying for strength with each shovelful. She would do this, she told herself. “For God, King, and Country.” For Colin . . .
    And because the last thing she wanted was to admit Clare Danner was right.

    The next morning Grace thought she might have died, except that Agnes again shook her awake at the unholy hour of five a.m. Rolling over, she groaned with the knowledge she would have to repeat yesterday’s dirt shoveling today. Everything hurt. She’d been too exhausted to write in