Page 16 of The Count’s Charade

Grace gave him a glittering smile. “Why, nothing, Doctor Ffrith. Apart from the night watches, I dare say there is scarce an hour in the day when there will not be visitors in the house — apart from Reuben and Mab. This affair has generated a good deal of interest among the villagers, you must know. I have no doubt we will be inundated over the next few days.”

Conscious of a sense of dissatisfaction he knew to be unwarranted, Henri contemplated his own face in the mirror held up for his inspection. The boy had certainly effected an improvement. Not that he cared for what he looked like. Only Grace had evidently instructed the lad to shave him and to wash and comb out his hair. Token, he hoped, that she might intend to visit him. She had been in evidence enough while he lay more or less helpless, or so he surmised from the brief memories. As he grew stronger, she left him more and more to the care of others. Except upon the occasion of the doctor’s last visit.

Reuben was waiting for his verdict. Henri noted the pallor of his reflection and the blue shade under his eyes. Was he thinner? He was glad at least of the fresh smoothness at his chin and upper lip. What a figure he must have presented to his hostess with his unkempt hair and a six-day growth of beard! He waved the mirror away.

“It is well, mon brave.”

The lad looked gratified. “I’ll tell Jemima as you’re ready for breakfast, sir.”

Henri thanked him and sank into the softness of the pillows banked behind him. One was placed under his arm so that the newly fashioned sling did not cut into his neck with the weight of it. Too weak to sit unaided, he welcomed the additional support that allowed him to contemplate his narrow world from a position other than supine. From this angle, the sash window opposite gave on to pastures rather than sky, and he was able to take in the scant furnishings of the room. Besides his wooden bed with its unadorned tester and an absence of curtains, there was a long chest to one side of the fireplace to his right, heaped with a pile of folded clothes. On the other side was a small press. Little else, he noted, besides the bedside cabinet. She was not, then, a woman of means.

The realisation made him the more grateful for the food presently brought up to him by the young maid. She jibbed a trifle at finding him alert.

“Why, bless me, you’re almost up!”

Henri grimaced. “Alas, no. Reuben has to help me much.”

The girl recollected herself, flushing a little. “Begging your pardon, sir, only it fair shook me to see you looking half alive. Must be ’acos you’re clean-shaven. Makes all the difference to a man, that do.”

Distracted by a tantalising aroma issuing from the tray, Henri’s gaze went to a covered platter. “What is it you have there?”

“Breakfast. Miss Grace said as how you might fancy a mite more than gruel.”

Henri sighed his satisfaction as the cover was removed and he caught a glimpse of solid food. “Grâce à Mademoiselle Grâce! It is eggs, yes?”

“Omelette,” confirmed the maid. “I’ve put a morsel of cheese in, for Miss Grace said as how Doctor Ffrith ain’t given his say-so for you to have pork, or I’d ’a put in ham and all.”

To one whose diet had consisted of whey, gruel and broth bar a trifle of stewed chicken for more days than he cared to think about, the notion of cheese omelette had a heartening effect upon the appetite.

“Lead me there, mam’zelle Jemima! I am well hungry for your omelette.”

A giggle escaped the girl, but she obediently took up the platter and began to feed him. Henri endured this for a moment or two, and then rebelled.

“Laisse-moi!”

The girl blinked. “Sir?”

“Give me the fork that I may try to feed myself.”

She looked shocked. “I don’t know as how Miss Grace would like it.”

“But Miss Grâce, she is not here,” Henri pointed out with a conspiratorial wink. He reached with his uninjured hand, and the maid gave up the utensil. “If you, Miss Jemima, will hold the plate close?”

Obligingly, she did so, and Henri found no difficulty in serving himself, with portions able to do justice to his quickening appetite. Half aware the girl eyed him in awe, he gave her scant attention until he had demolished the omelette. Then he grinned at her round-eyed look.

“Merci, Miss Jemima. You are a cook extremely good, I think.”

Which reduced the girl to blushing giggles, a finger snaking up to curl about the frizzy locks escaping from under her cap. But she disclaimed nevertheless. “We’ll see if you think so when you’re able to eat more hearty. An omelette ain’t no hardship. But we ain’t got no call for that there fancy Frenchified cookery in these parts.”

Henri laughed. “But me, I am not at all fancy, Miss Jemima.”

“Lor’, sir, there ain’t no need for you to call me ‘Miss’. I ain’t no lady. ‘Jemima’ will do me.”

An odd clumping sounded, as if something was being dragged up the stairs, bumping on each one. Before Henri could enquire as to the cause, Jemima picked up the tray.

“There’s Miss Grace now.” She leaned down to him. “Don’t you tell her as I let you feed yourself.”

Henri answered merely with a shake of his head, preoccupied with the intelligence that the noisy approach signalled the arrival of his hostess. What could she be bringing up that required so much effort? But a faint recollection of a similar sound was beginning to penetrate his mind. He had heard it before, at a distance and unregarded. And closer at hand once or twice, a short, sharp sound. Vaguely, he heard the maid exchange a word or two with the voice he knew was that of his saviour, his attention on the fact the clunking had ceased. It started up again, and as she entered the room, it dawned on him for the first time that the sound accompanied Grace.