Page 35 of The Count’s Charade

Behind her, Jemima let out a gasp, and Gibbs reddened. Grimly determined not to give anything away, Grace ignored the remark and read over the advertisement. She made one or two corrections and handed it back. “There. I trust you will both excuse me, for I am excessively busy today.”

Obedient to Jemima’s beckoning finger, the tailor withdrew. But Mrs Jones was made of sterner stuff. Waiting until Gibbs was out in the hall, she lowered her tone. “Is it true, Miss Grace?”

Grace clamped down on a flame of anger. “Is what true, Mrs Jones?”

The blacksmith’s wife glanced at the ceiling. “He’s up in your spare chamber, as I heard it. Been here more’n a week, and handsome as a picture, they do say. I’m right glad for you, Miss Grace, even if he is a Frenchie.”

Grace eyed her. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mrs Jones nodded her understanding. “It ain’t none o’ my affair, I know that. Only I did hope to catch a glimpse of him, for —”

At this point, to Grace’s heartfelt relief, she was rescued by her maid. Belligerent in defence of her mistress, Jemima marched in and glared at the blacksmith’s wife, arms akimbo.

“If you’re done, Mrs Jones, I’ll show you to the door.”

There was nothing for the woman to do but make her curtsy and leave. Grace heard the front door slam shut, and dropped a despairing head into her hands. In a moment, the maid was back, letting fly.

“The nerve of some folks, asking you outright like she did!”

Grace did not move, and she heard Jemima’s tone change.

“Oh, Miss Grace, don’t you fret none!” The girl’s hand was patting her shoulder. “There, there, Miss Grace. She ain’t worth crying over, and if anyone else comes nosing round here, I’ll tell them straight to take themselves off!”

Grace raised her head and looked up wearily. “I’m not crying, Jemima.”

The maid straightened. “Well, I’m glad o’ that, miss. But don’t tell me you ain’t upset, ’cause I’ve eyes in me head and I ain’t no jobbernoll.”

“You’re a treasure, Jemima,” said Grace, reaching for the girl’s hand. “Thank you.”

The maid went pink. “Good thing Mister Henry ain’t seen you like this. Hopping mad, he’d be.”

Grace blinked. “Mister Henry?”

Jemima shrugged. “I know it ain’t right, but he told me as it don’t matter if I say it English-like. I can’t be saying Mister Ong-ree all day, it ain’t natural.”

But Grace had by now taken in the significance of the maid’s words behind the anglicising of his name. She eyed Jemima askance. “What has Henri said to you?”

Here the maid became absorbed in smoothing her apron. She glanced at the case clock. “Bless me, look at the time! All they visitors has made me late.” She hurried to the door, and there hesitated. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Miss Grace? I’m doing one for Mister Henry. He says as Frenchmen likes coffee better nor tea, and I said as I’d bring him some up mid-morning.”

Unreasonably put out, Grace concealed her feelings and accepted the offer. She knew she was being silly. Why shouldn’t Henri be upon friendly terms with the maid? Especially as his hostess was making it a point not to spend time with him. She had dropped in once last night and again this morning, just to see how he did. Pleading a backlog of work, she had kept out of his chamber otherwise, sending up books and the last newspaper left by Joe Piper in case he should be bored.

Why she was avoiding him was a question she did not care to contemplate. Was it pretence to think she did it in order to lessen the cause for gossip? If so, she had been taken at fault. The blacksmith’s wife was clearly convinced Henri was here. Grace did not think she could have said anything that would have served to disabuse her. In which case, it was a little pointless to deprive herself of Henri’s company.

Only she knew that was not the reason. It was not gossip she feared, but her own emotions. Too late. The damage was done. Would it change anything to force herself to exist without him before she needed to? What good did it do?

None at all, she answered herself, and the blood jumped in her veins. Neither to herself nor Henri, obliged to remain out of sight with none to talk to bar the servants. Neglect was no way to care for him.

She rose suddenly from the bureau, and stomped across to the door and through to the kitchen, wholly forgetful of her cumbersome walk. “Jemima!”

The maid was busy filling up the coffee pot. “Yes, Miss Grace?”

“Will you bring the tray upstairs? I am going to take coffee with Mister Henry. And if anyone else should come here, please tell them that I have gone out.”

Jemima grinned, delight in her features. “Don’t you fret, miss. There ain’t no one going to get past me, ’cepting as it’s summat as I know you’d want to hear.”

Grace thanked her and made her way upstairs. She could not choose but signal her arrival, and it was therefore with a riffle of trepidation under her ribs that she entered the bedchamber.

Henri was standing by the window, fully dressed bar his coat, in the dark breeches and waistcoat that encompassed all the wardrobe he possessed. The sling held his injured arm stable. He had evidently been awaiting her, for he was looking towards the door. He spoke before she could open her mouth.