Page 47 of The Count’s Charade

She felt as if she had been sitting at her bureau for hours. Her eyes strayed frequently to the shelf behind which the hidden cache held its secret. When her head had cleared, she had taken the first opportunity to check. The papers were all there. When the time was propitious, she meant to look at them again. Before Henri came back.

Jemima had come and gone with cups of tea or coffee, accompanied once by a buttered scone, and later by a slice of bread and jam, both of which she had taken away again untouched, tutting and shaking her head. Grace had no excuses, nor could she find words to allay the maid’s distress. Her own was too acute, too deeply etched into the well of anxiety that possessed her. She wanted only to be left alone.

Dusk was gathering, and Grace had lit the candles in the candelabrum that stood upon her bureau, when a faint rhythmic sound in the distance proved to be the trotting of horses and the jingle of harness. It grew louder, in rhythm with the rising patter at her heart, and came to a halt outside her door. Sir James! Was he come to tell her Henri had been captured?

She waited, motionless, her eyes turned towards the parlour door. His features were grim as he entered, the grizzled brows drawn close together. “No sign of him.”

A faint breath sighed out of Grace, but she said nothing.

“Wooferton has been back to Rainham, and he reports the Frenchmen have been out all day. We’re returning to the Black Horse now, in hopes of their return. It’s to be hoped the fellow has not fallen foul of them in his haste to escape us, my dear Grace.”

Her stomach hollowed out, and it was all Grace could do to refrain from groaning aloud. She clung to the belief Henri had been one step ahead of all his enemies, the Frenchmen included.

She managed to find a response. “You will send me word?”

“The moment I hear anything.” The severity in his features relaxed, and he crossed the room, dropping a hand upon her shoulder. There was a rough kindness in his voice. “Try to sleep, my dear. There is nothing to be gained by worrying.”

“You are very good, sir,” said Grace mechanically.

She made to rise, but he stopped her. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”

Grace bade him goodnight. His departure brought Jemima into the room, her candle held aloft.

“You’ve ate nothing, Miss Grace. Can’t you fancy a bite o’ supper?”

“I’m not hungry.”

The maid sighed. “Well, shall I lock up then?”

Grace stared at her, blank with incomprehension. “Why ask me?”

Jemima fidgeted with the candlestick, prising off bits of stuck wax. “I was only thinking, if — if Mister Henry do come back, he won’t be able to get in.”

Her heart jerked. How had Jemima guessed it?

The question shot out. “What makes you think he will come back?”

The maid sidled a little. “I dunno. Could be as he ain’t as best healed as he thinks for. Might’ve not gone far enough afore them lot went a-searching of him.”

Grace eyed her as she shrugged. The girl was being uncharacteristically evasive. She could not know what her mistress knew. Henri needed those papers. Unless he was depending upon Grace to take them to the authorities, should it become necessary? It was what he had said to her days since, when he had given them back into her keeping. But how would she know, were he taken outside this area? No, it made no sense. He would be back for them. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Only she hoped he did not mean to spend the night in the open. It was hot still by day, but the nights were chill.

Then again, Grace needed time alone to re-examine the papers. Break the seals on those important ones, if need be. Let Henri signal his coming. There was nothing to stop him knocking to be let in.

She made up her mind. “Lock up. He is not coming back.”

Jemima positively pouted. “Well, I never thought to hear you say such a thing, Miss Grace! Don’t you know as he wouldn’t go without saying goodbye to you?”

To Grace’s dismay, a choking sob escaped her. She controlled it instantly, but not before the maid had noticed.

“There, now, I knew it! You’re as down in the mouth as you could be, and no wonder.”

“Be quiet, Jemima!” The snap in her voice was unkind, but Grace needed all her defences. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Pray just do as I tell you and lock up. And go to bed!”

The maid sniffed and thrust her nose in the air. “Just as you wish, miss. Only I knows what I know, and them as lives longest will see the most.”

With which, she swept out, her hand protective around the candle flame, leaving Grace prey to a nagging desire to throw off all restraint and give way to a hearty bout of weeping. She suppressed it, instead returning her attention to the bureau shelves, and listening for the sound of Jemima’s footsteps as she went about shutting up the house for the night.

At last she could be heard tramping upstairs. Grace waited until the echo of her feet upon the upper stairway had ended, and then she slipped the catch and pulled out the shelf. In a moment she was in possession of all Henri’s papers.