Page 7 of The Count’s Charade

Grace took pains not to appear high in the instep, and treated everyone in the same friendly manner, but she was capable of exerting the authority of her status when, as upon the present occasion, she felt it to be necessary. Especially since the doctor had thought it proper to discuss the matter with Mr Mayberry, whom he had brought with him into the bargain, before answering her summons.

“It is as well that I sent also for Mr Dunmow,” she told him, “or the poor man must have died waiting for your arrival.”

“Yes, Clem told me you had done so,” stated the doctor, giving her one of his austere looks over the spectacles, “or I should have come at once. From Clem’s description —”

“Pray do not quote me the doom-laden remarks made to you by Clem,” Grace cut in. “I presume it is not your practice to base your diagnoses upon the lurid details supplied to you by a farmhand?”

Ffrith drew himself up and shoved the spectacles further up his nose. “I did no such thing, ma’am. Only I thought it expedient, assuming Dunmow would do his best for the man, to embark immediately upon arrangements to relieve you, Miss Dovercourt, of what must be both a burden and a frightening responsibility.”

“It is not a burden, I am not in the least frightened, and I take full responsibility.”

“I take leave to doubt the Reverend gentleman your brother will be similarly sanguine.”

Fury flared in Grace’s breast, but she quelled it, trying for a calm note. “Since you saw fit to advise him to take Mrs Dovercourt to the coast, Doctor Ffrith, it is useless to trouble ourselves with what Constant might or might not agree to.”

She read further argument in the doctor’s eye and could only be glad when Mr Mayberry intervened.

“If I might make so bold, Miss Grace?”

Grace turned to him. He had been standing a little apart, near her bureau, while she confronted the doctor in the middle of the parlour. A burly fellow, with ruddy features under a shock of autumn hair grizzled at the temples, Mayberry fairly dwarfed the room as he stepped forward.

“Yes, Mr Mayberry?”

“I’d say, Miss Grace, as there’s a deal of question in the matter, seeing as this here feller were shot at in this parish. If it should come to a case of murder, it might be as we had ought to bring in the constables. So, if it’s all the same to you, Miss Grace, I’ve my duty to think for, and I had ought to see the feller at least.”

A rise of apprehension caused a flutter in Grace’s bosom. There could be no doubt of Mayberry’s rights, and it was likely politic to let him into the bedchamber. She could only hope the Frenchman would remain unconscious. Concealing her dismay, she adopted her best authoritarian manner. “You may see him, Mr Mayberry, but remove him from this house you will not!”

“My dear Miss Dovercourt, if Mayberry considers it to be his duty —”

“It is not his duty to complete the work of whoever it was who tried to murder the victim,” interrupted Grace with some heat. “And you, Doctor Ffrith, will admit that to move a man who has lost a deal of blood already is a dangerous proceeding.”

The doctor pursed his lips, and removed his spectacles, evidently declining to answer. Triumphant, Grace brushed past him towards the parlour door.

“I shall take you both up to him, but I must request you not to disturb him beyond what you must.”

“If you wish me to examine the wound, ma’am, I’m afraid I must disturb him.”

Grace turned as she reached the stairs. “I do wish you to examine it. I am merely asking you to have a care.”

Ffrith chose to ignore this. “Who is with him now?”

“Mrs Lamport.”

He was visibly relieved. “Ah, then you are not nursing him yourself.”

Grace stumped on up the stairs as if she had not heard him. She was not going to embark upon a fruitless argument, which would undoubtedly end in her losing her temper. Let him think it, if it would appease him. All she cared for was that neither of the two men would attempt to take the Frenchman away.

He was lying in the same death-like state, but his breathing was easier. Grace was conscious of an urge to stand at the bedside to guard him from the onslaught of the unsympathetic Doctor Ffrith. Forcing herself to go to the foot of the bed, and carefully keeping out of the light from the window, she signed to Mab to move aside and allow the two men access.

Ffrith took the nurse’s place, and Mayberry crossed behind Grace to the other side of the bed, leaning over the man and intently examining his face, while the doctor resumed his spectacles and pulled back the covers to get at the wound. To Grace’s relief, his disapproval gave way to professional interest. “Once he is sitting up,” he said in a low tone, glancing over the pince-nez at Mab, “he must have his arm in a sling to take pressure off the muscles about the wound.”

The nurse’s gaze swept from him to Grace and back again. Grace maintained a prudent silence. Mab nodded, and gave a terse agreement. “Whatever you say, doctor.”

“He looks mighty poorly,” Mayberry commented, looking at Ffrith. “Will he live, do you think?”

“I understand he has lost a good deal of blood, but I may be better able to answer you when I’ve seen the wound.”

He was unwinding Grace’s bandage as he spoke. A tattoo built up in her chest. She felt torn between her desperate desire for the Frenchmen’s health, which must undoubtedly benefit from the doctor’s expert advice, and an inexplicable jealousy that any but she should touch him. Had it been possible for her to extract the bullet, she must have dispensed with Dunmow’s reluctant services. An absurd conceit! Why, she scarce knew the man. It was as though she had embarked upon a conspiracy with him the moment she took charge of those dratted papers — the instrument, she felt sure, of his near demise.