Page 78 of The Count’s Charade

When Reuben left, after partaking of a gossip in the kitchen, Grace learned from a Jemima boiling with wrath that Dunmow the apothecary was busy informing everyone that he had guessed at the outset the fellow was more than he seemed.

“Lying fit to bust hisself, he is,” reported the maid furiously, “saying as how he saved Mister Henry’s life, and he could tell at a glance as he were one of they émigrés. He for one ain’t surprised, he says, to find the feller as high as an English earl. As if he ain’t refused to do nothing and just about killed Mister Henry into the bargain!”

Worst of all was the inevitable arrival of the blacksmith’s wife. It was as much as Grace could do to endure the pitying stare with which the creature regarded her.

“What a shame for you, Miss Grace, after all your hopes! I was that pleased for you ’an all, and I can’t say as it ain’t a judgement not to be too hasty.”

“I have not the remotest notion what you mean, Mrs Jones.”

The woman gave a soulful sigh. “I’d stick to that, if I were you, Miss Grace. Though I dare say it won’t be no manner o’ use, folks knowing what they know. Only when I heard as he was a count, I said to myself as it just won’t do. Not that we who knows you don’t value you, but —”

“If you’re done, Mrs Jones,” came pointedly from Jemima, appearing at the parlour door, “I’ll see you out.”

Grace bit her tongue on the protests that rose within her as she watched the rout of the blacksmith’s wife by her ever more redoubtable maid. How little anyone knew of Henri! As if he would spurn her on the score of her lowlier status. The intimation she had been on the catch for him was as nothing to the insult to his character. Of all things, Henri Rousselle was a man unmarked by that sort of snobbery. Though he had worked against the revolution from within, his compassion had been stirred by the lot of the ordinary people with whom he came in contact. Moreover, as far as Grace knew, he had been merely a distant relation of the previous Comte, gaining the title only through those many deaths amongst a breed he had sought to protect.

No, Henri would not reject her on the score of his aristocracy. Indeed, she was almost certain he would not reject her at all. Only it was two days now, and he had not made contact. Try as she would, Grace could not prevent a burgeoning resentment. No matter how many times she told herself that if Sir James had taken it into his head to show Henri off around the county he had no time to come calling, she could not help a sneaking suspicion he was putting off the moment. Small wonder, when it had been forced upon him.

More than ever, Grace determined to carry through her resolve. She made an attempt to resume her former life, setting to upon the pile of waiting work. But the house felt lonelier than ever, and all too full of memories. No matter where she went — so small a space as she occupied — there were images of Henri to haunt her imagination.

She avoided the spare bedchamber, but the parlour was no better, for it was there at the table he had kissed her that first time. For comfort, though the memory tortured her almost as much as the remembrance of their lovemaking. As for her bureau, she could not sit there but her eye was drawn to the shelf concealing the hidden cache. Empty of its secrets now, as barren as her heart.

Sighing, she made to rise, hearing Jemima’s step as she crossed from the front door to the back as she locked up for the night. Abruptly, the effort became too much. Grace slumped back down, dropping her elbows on to the open top of the bureau, and sinking her face into her hands.

Lord, how she missed him! Was it for this she had saved a man from dying? Could he not have been a lesser mortal, one that wielded no power to fan the flames of love in her heart? Henri, Henri, why did you invade my life?

“Grâce?”

Yes, that voice! Speaking her name with an inflexion of accent, turning the sound into a murmured caress. She was ugly, but Henri had made her beautiful. How had he done that?

“Do you weep, ma chère?”

Grace slid her hands to her ears, and pressed them tight to shut it out. Unbearable to hear him! Not that endearment … not those words. Making her believe. The plea escaped her unregarded.

“Go away! Go away from me!”

An eerie quality in the ensuing silence penetrated her self-absorption. Grace let her hands fall, and turned her head. In the dimly shadowed doorway a figure stood. Her heart leaped with shock and she let out a gasp. If her eyes and heart did not deceive her, it was Henri.

Hesitant, he eyed her, the wan features lit by the candles to a pallid glow. There was fierceness in her stare, and Henri wondered briefly if he had imagined the drooping figure of a moment before. She had looked altogether woebegone, unutterably weary. But now, as the shock of his entrance was passing, Grace appeared a stranger. Not at all the welcoming creature he had expected. Was she angry he had not arrived earlier?

“Grâce, it has been impossible to come to you before tonight.” She made a motion he took to be negative. “Ah, you understand, ma chère. This Sir James he has done that which I most wished to avoid. It is why I have hidden that paper, enfin. Now I am to be always the Comte de Rousselle, which is a role I prefer to forget.”

He gave a tentative smile and moved a little into the room. She seemed to draw back into herself, and he halted again, beset by the first stirrings of alarm.

“Grâce, what is it with you? Did you not expect me? Is it possible that I have not a welcome here?”

That produced change. She started up, but she did not rise. “Always! How could you think otherwise?”

Henri did not approach her. The words were belied by her attitude. Confused, he shifted instead to the parlour table, touching it with his left arm, which was no longer protected with a sling, as if to reassure himself it was real, that this was the place he had come to think of as home. Behind him, a footfall and a cheery voice announced the entrance of the maid.

“I’ve brought you some wine, Mister Henry.” She bustled over to the table and set down the tray. “Reuben brought it over when he come. Oh, and he said to tell you as he’s ready to serve you any time you need him. You’ve only to give the word.”

At once Henri felt an easing of the apprehension that had begun to invade him. If Jemima accepted his arrival, then the withdrawal was in Grace. He had not mistaken his position, only rediscovered those barriers he had before encountered with her. He trusted they would not prove insurmountable. He smiled at the maid, who was pouring the wine.

“You have thought most intelligently, Jemima. I am much in need of wine.” He looked across to where Grace was seated at the bureau. “Ma chère, will you not drink with me?”

Grace’s emotions were in disarray, betrayed by the blood in her veins at the very sight of Henri. But he? Had he been so confident, so sure of her? Well, why would he not be, after all that had passed? She summoned what little calm she possessed, hoping her voice would not shake.

“Certainly I will drink with you.”