Page 6 of The Count’s Charade

“It will be longer than that. After what he has been through, I cannot suppose my patient will recover inside of a week or more.”

“Your patient, is it?”

Grace met Mab’s truculent stare with a steely gaze. “It is entirely my fault he is in so bad a condition. I heard him last night, you see, and had I got up then, I might have staunched the blood, and he would be in a far better state now.”

It was not to be supposed this view of the matter would find favour with her old nurse. But in disabusing Grace of the absurd notion she was in any way to blame, she lost sight of her intention and ended by agreeing to come in for an hour or two, for the next couple of days, to relieve Grace at the patient’s bedside.

“Otherwise I shall not be able to work at all,” Grace pointed out, “and if I fall behind, I will never catch up again. And Mr Staply needs that paper by the end of the week.”

The mention of her writing tasks provided Mab with a diversion, for she immediately took up the old complaint against Grace performing clerical labour. She had barely begun, however, when a muttering broke out behind them, effectively putting an end to all thought of anything but the Frenchman’s plight.

“Ils arrivent! Mes papiers, mademoiselle … they will kill for them!”

CHAPTER TWO

Grace hurried to the bedside and found the green eyes staring up at her. She read confusion in their depths, and apprehension. She made haste to reassure him.

“No one is coming here. Hush now, there is nothing to fear, sir. Pray be calm.”

“Mes papiers?” Anxiety in the thread of a voice.

“Safe, I promise you,” Grace soothed, laying a hand to his brow. It was cool to the touch, and she sighed with relief, her glance returning to the eyes that watched her warily. Grace smiled at him. “I believe you were dreaming, sir. Truly, there is no cause for alarm. Rest now, if you please.”

The green eyes dulled again, and his head shifted on the pillow slightly, as if he would nod. “Merci.” The faint murmur reached her as his eyes were closing, and in a moment he was sleeping again.

Grace looked up to find her old nurse parked on the other side of the big bed, arms akimbo and a martial light in her eye. Her tone became ominous.

“A Frenchie?”

Grace put a finger to her lips and shook her head, frowning Mab down. Then she moved to the door, gesturing to Mrs Lamport to follow. Drawing Mab out of the room, she half closed the door. “I will not suffer you to disturb him, Mab. Yes, he is French, but I wish you will keep it to yourself for the moment.”

Mab sniffed. “There won’t be no need for me to say nothing once the feller opens his mouth.”

“But that may not be for some little time. I wish to avoid the awkwardness that must attend such a revelation for as long as possible, do you understand?”

“I understand as you’re in danger from mor’n what I supposed, that’s what I understand,” grumbled the nurse.

“Don’t be absurd!”

“What Mr Constant will have to say, I’m sure I don’t know!”

Which remark served to remind Grace of one matter of good fortune. Constant had taken his family to the coast for several weeks, in the hope that sea air might do his wife good. Serena had been sickly off and on for some years, and Grace was moved to offer up a silent prayer of thanks to her sister-in-law. The Reverend Mr Dovercourt would undoubtedly disapprove of her activities.

Changing tack, she seized her nurse’s hands, squeezing them hard. “Pray, Mab, keep faith with me! I need your help, my dear.”

It was a deliberate ploy, for she knew well the creature could not resist such an appeal. Nor was she mistaken. Drawing herself up, Mab declared that no matter her own misgivings, Grace would not find her lacking in loyalty. If she was determined upon her own downfall, far be it from the nurse to hasten it with any undue words in the wrong quarter. Discovering that in all the excitement her nurseling had not had time to break her fast, she broke into fresh scolding.

“It ain’t no manner of use starving yourself for that feller. You’ll be no use to him if you don’t keep up your own strength, Miss Grace. I’ll watch him for you while you have your breakfast, never fear.”

Reluctant, but aware that for all her complaints, Mab would care for her Frenchman as well or better than she could, Grace allowed herself to be shooed downstairs.

Jemima no sooner heard Grace’s dot-and-carry step than she erupted from the kitchen to bid her mistress sit down to the table in the parlour, which was ready laid, and she would bring in tea and whip up a couple of poached eggs and set them on toast. “For I’ve not had time to bake rolls, and that loaf ain’t fit for nothing else.”

Realising she was indeed extremely hungry, Grace thanked her as she obediently entered the parlour. Glancing at the case clock on the mantel, she discovered it to be nearly eleven. Was it three hours already since Jemima had found the Frenchman? Neither Doctor Ffrith nor Mr Mayberry had put in an appearance, which suggested neither had readily been found by the messengers sent to them. The intelligence that a wounded man had been discovered in Miss Dovercourt’s lean-to and been taken up to her spare bedchamber was enough, Grace knew, to bring both down upon her in a hurry. What their reaction would be upon discovering his nationality, she dreaded to think.

This thought put her in mind of what the man had said upon waking, and she remembered the existence of the papers in her pocket. Dared she remove them now? No, for the news, in the way of villages, must be rapidly spreading, and she could not hope to remain undisturbed. It was imperative she was alone when she looked at them. She blenched a little at the thought of what those papers might contain. What had he said? Ils arrivent! “They are coming.” And they — whoever “they” might be — would kill for the papers. Dear Lord, into what dread secret had she stumbled?

A spare man, with a habit of peering over a pair of pince-nez perched on the end of his nose, Dr Ffrith stood a little upon his dignity. He adhered to his wig, in defiance of the coming fashion for gentlemen to wear their own hair, and insisted upon addressing Grace correctly despite her being known among the locals as Miss Grace. As sister to the local vicar, and daughter of a gentleman, Grace stood a step above him in station, but she was used to his practice of adopting an inclusive air towards her, as of belonging with her in an elite among lesser men.