Page 62 of The Count’s Charade

The thought snaked through her mind, startling her. He knew she was wholly on his side. He knew that she loved him. Was it his intention she should seek the truth in his documents? Henri knew they were safe here. Either he meant to keep them so until he had need of them, or he was entrusting them to her care.

Was she to read them? She tried to think back to the moment of parting. Distraught, and in shock, she had been in no condition to receive meaningful messages. Henri had been taken outside while Mayberry searched his room. Wooferton would not let Grace out until they were ready to leave. She had floundered down the path, almost tripping in her haste. When she had reached the lane, Henri had been looking back at her from where he sat on Mayberry’s horse. He had raised a hand in salute, and then had turned his head to the front, without again glancing round.

There had been no message, no secret instruction. Grace was on her own. If there was a decision to be made, it must be hers alone. Instantly she realised there was no decision to make. If there was the slightest chance the papers might save Henri — from the French or the English both — she had no choice but to open them.

Two minutes later she broke the first seal.

It was luxurious for a prison. Henri suspected he had been housed in one of the less costly of the bedchambers Wooferton let out on hire. It was set between two of the eaves, which argued its lowly status. But it was furnished with a comfortable four-poster, a rickety commode upon which were placed a basin and ewer, and a chair by the casement window — too small for a man to get through.

He spent most of the day resting on the bed, taking care to eat everything brought to him at meal times, for he knew he must keep up his strength. Towards the late afternoon, he received a visit from Reuben.

“Mr Mayberry knew as how I’d been a-serving of you out at Miss Grace’s,” said the lad, “and he give Mr Wooferton the office to let me in.” He grinned. “I said as I had ought to see to your wound, Mister Henry.”

Henri clapped him on the back. “A ploy extremely clever, mon brave.”

To his surprise, Reuben was indeed armed with salves and bandaging, together with a new cloth to be turned into a sling. Henri was sure he had come from Grace. The disappointment, when Reuben denied it, was intense.

“I ain’t seen Miss Grace, sir. It were Mab as sent me. But she give me the office to go back by way o’ Wonts, Mister Henry, if you was wishful to send a message.”

Henri had yearned to send to her. But what to say? He was not ready to request his documents. Nor did he dare to pen such words as might be intercepted. Indeed, to give Reuben anything at all was to put him in danger. Would he remember if he were given an oral message?

“Tell to her —” No, there was nothing he could say that could be heard by other ears. “Tell to her only that I am well, that I have eaten, and that they give me this excellent chamber, even though they have locked it.”

Reuben repeated it all, and assured Henri he could remember it very well. He then helped Henri to remove his upper garments, and assisted him at his ablutions before applying his salve and rebandaging the wound, remarking in a puzzled manner upon its having opened again. Henri refrained from enlightening him as to the cause, and remained silent for a time, caught by the memories invoked.

In his mind, he added to the message he had given Reuben. Words and feelings that could not be spoken. Of affection, of missing her, of needs and desires that might never be fulfilled. Almost, when Reuben was waiting at the door to be let out by the guardian outside, Henri voiced such thoughts aloud. Honour alone prevented him. Until he had won this battle, he must not speak.

With Reuben’s departure, there was too much time for thought and remembrance. But his desires drove his mind backwards in time, beyond the moment of encountering Grace to the causes that would prevent him from returning to her.

Dinner came and went. He was glad he had kept the bottle, for he had little to do beyond brooding and the wine was welcome. The opening of the door alerted him, and he looked up from contemplation of his glass. Jean-Marc entered the room.

Henri started up, instinctively throwing himself out of the bed on the other side for safety. He addressed the man in French. “How have you got in here?”

Jean-Marc smiled unpleasantly, responding in their own language. “Did you think I would let these English pigs stop me? The man Wooferton chooses badly for his tools.”

Wary, Henri shifted out into the room, trying to see if Jean-Marc was armed. Would he shoot him in cold blood in the bedchamber of an inn? No, too risky. The man was no fool. With so many on the premises aware of the situation, he would be caught. Sir James would have him tried for murder. Jean-Marc must have the man’s measure.

Some other method then. A knife? Poison? Then he must get near enough to try it. He watched Jean-Marc softly closing the door, and took up his remark.

“What have you used, bribery? Or drugged ale?”

Jean-Marc shrugged. “What is it to you?”

“Who now is out there? Augustin?”

“I say again, what is it to you?”

Henri’s back was to the window. Much good would it do him! No escape that way. He must rely on his wits, for he had little strength to match his enemy. Nevertheless, he took the precaution of removing his arm from the sling. One-handed, he would be helpless. He leaned against the wall in a pose deceptively relaxed.

“What do you intend, Jean-Marc? To kill me in this room?”

“You take me for a fool?” The other’s lip curled. “All along, this has been your trouble, Henri. You believe you only have the brains. Yet you have not brains enough to know when the time has come to give up.”

A riffle of anger threw Henri’s guard off. “Ah, but you knew? Give up? One does not give up such a cause, except that one is a traitor.”

“You, Henri, are the traitor, do you not remember?” It was hard, and cold.

Henri almost spat the words. “Traitor to whom? Le Directeur? Yes, assuredly. Just as were all four of us, loyal to a different master.”