Page 34 of The Count’s Charade

Grace immediately sat down at her bureau to pen a suitable message, knowing the butler would not dare refuse to answer a query from the sister of his master’s son-in-law. The matter thus disposed of, she thanked Piper and stumped upstairs to give the good news to Henri.

He eyed her warily where she perched on the edge of the bed. Was there a trifle of colour in her cheek? Her manner gave no sign of last night’s little contretemps. Had he mistaken those warmer feelings she appeared to cherish towards him? So much the better. Henri had no wish to hurt her, especially this creature who had fought fiercely for his life, and in his defence.

Willingly would he repay her — with that devotion he suspected she craved — if he could. His situation was too uncertain. He should not have given way to the overwhelming impulse to kiss her last night. It had been unfair, and unkind. But, despite himself, her immediate rejection had piqued him. Foolishly, for he had no intentions in this direction. It would be impossible.

“I wish you will be sensible and remain quietly in bed,” she was saying, regarding him with anxious eyes. “It is a heaven-sent opportunity to recruit your strength.”

Henri banished his thoughts and smiled his reassurance. “For today, I will do so. But it is necessary that I try my legs. They will not become strong if I do not use them.”

A frown creased her brow. “Are you not feeling tired after yesterday?”

He was, but he did not want to add to her troubled air. “I have rested all night, enfin. But do you not see that I wear my nightshirt and I have not required Reuben to dress me today?”

That sweet smile of hers appeared, and Henri realised he had missed it. The light it brought to her features softened them, bringing warmth to her grey eyes.

“True. Though I would not put it past you to be dressing yourself the moment my back is turned.”

Henri laughed. “Ah, you think me an ingrate. But no, ma chère. I think there is no danger today that we may be surprised by my compatriots. They will look to the west, as your Mayberry is suggesting. Today, perhaps tomorrow.”

Her smile had faded. “You think they will come back?”

“Sans doute. Not finding me, they must return where they have a clue, no?”

He saw the perturbation was once more in her face. “You’re right, of course.” It was only for a moment that she looked defeated. He watched her features as the determination crept back. “I shall think of a plan to thwart them, never fear. They will not get the better of me!”

Henri could not help laughing. “Bravo, ma belle Grâce!” Then he wished he had held his tongue, for Grace flushed and a stricken look came into her eyes. She pushed herself up from the bed and clunked noisily to the door. Her tone was gruff, and decidedly petulant.

“Don’t be stupid, Henri! Anything less beautiful than Grace Dovercourt would be hard to imagine.”

With which, she disappeared from view and he was left to the echo of her clumping gait as she stomped downstairs. The overloud thump of her boot on each step was, Henri felt sure, exaggerated. But she was difficult, enfin! He resigned himself to a lonely sojourn in his chamber for the rest of the day. Grace would not be back.

The uneven temper that plagued Grace was not improved upon the following day, when she was subjected to the nuisance of a plethora of nosy visits. Never had so many persons all at once found a use for her writing services.

First it was Staply the schoolmaster, to collect his long-overdue treatise. Since he also brought a note via Joe Piper from Sir James Levisham’s butler, he was doubly welcome, and his curiosity was sufficiently veiled to be taken as accidental.

“I managed without it for the time being,” he said in answer to Grace’s apology for the delay. “Had no wish to trouble you under difficult circumstances, Miss Grace.”

The tidings from Rainham Lodge added an edge of worry to Grace’s troubled mind, for although the butler was not in his master’s confidence, he had gathered that some accident had indeed befallen the party at the coast. But this news paled beside the nuisance of curiosity that brought Grace’s neighbours down upon her.

Closely following Staply came Mr Holwell, who kept a shop in Rainham. Dropping in as he was passing, as he claimed, with a suspiciously spurious excuse. As he had not seen Miss Grace for some time, he wanted to check if there was anything she needed on the order to his mercer, for which he required her to check the spelling.

“Thought as you might be wanting material for a new gown. There’s some patterns in them new muslins.” He coughed delicately. “Make up well, they would, for a special occasion.”

He might as well have said “wedding”. Furious, but unable to show it, Grace summarily disposed of his illusions.

“I do not anticipate the need for any new gowns in the near future. This calico and my blue dimity serve me very well. It was good of you to think of me, however.”

After him came Billy Oaken, with a letter for her to read to him from a man looking for an apprenticeship for his son. He too had an offer for her, of a new built-up shoe. “Thought I might make you up a pair in blue kid. I got a good leather in, Miss Grace, just right for that pretty kind o’ shoe.”

Grace might have been touched, had she not been so irate. Billy was followed by two errand boys with no other excuse than to enquire if they were on the right road to Little Cold Harbour. Jemima, who was becoming almost as cross as Grace, disposed of them speedily enough. The final straw proved the blacksmith’s wife, come all the way from Rainham merely to have Grace look over a letter she was sending to a relative halfway across the county.

“I’m in hopes, Miss Grace, of my cousin finding a place for my eldest girl in his master’s household. Only I didn’t know how best to tell her good qualities without seeming as I’m partial, being as I’m her ma.”

Hardly had Grace flicked swiftly through the letter and given it her unqualified approval, than another knock at the door produced Jack Gibbs, the tailor from as far afield as Wennington. The blacksmith’s wife was hovering when Gibbs was shown into the parlour by a disapproving Jemima. “He’s got an advertisement he wants you to look at, miss.”

Hat in hand, the tailor offered his apologetic excuse he was wishful to let it be known in the right quarters that he had a new pattern for a coat.

“It ain’t a French pattern, is it?” asked Mrs Jones pointedly as Grace took the proffered paper.