Page 60 of The Count’s Charade

She had watched the cavalcade all the way down the lane, growing smaller and more indistinguishable with distance, until it turned off towards Rainham and was lost to sight. The very air had stilled, and the silence was absolute. Never had Grace felt so isolated.

She had stood for a while, unwilling or unable to weep, although she felt as if the tearing dread must burst out. The day was heating up, but chill pervaded her body, a line of ice running down her spine. She had jumped as Jemima’s voice broke across the quiet.

“Aren’t you coming in, Miss Grace?”

Grace turned her head. She could see the maid standing in the porch, and recognised anxiety in her features. But her attention caught on the house around her. It looked smaller, and alien. Unreal somehow, like an ineffectual painting. Her gaze travelled upwards, and found Henri’s window. The emptiness behind it yawned at her.

“I’ve made some tea.”

She blinked, focusing on Jemima’s face. Tea. Yes, tea would be pleasant. A shiver shook her, and she roused herself to move. Only the motion felt feigned, as if Grace was outside herself, watching as she clumped up the path.

By the time she reached the porch, Jemima had retired to the kitchen. Grace trod up the step, hearing the stomp of her foot unnaturally loud in her ears. Her progress into the parlour sounded like a breach in the enfolding silence within the house. As if she no longer belonged. As if the house and she had come apart.

Automatically, she took her place at the head of the table as Jemima bustled in with the tray. A riffle of naturalness prevailed while the girl poured out and presented Grace with the cup, waiting until it was raised to her mistress’ lips. Satisfied at length, she went away, leaving Grace to the same uncomfortable sensation of deadly quiet, where every clink and scrape of her cup against the saucer travelled around the room in echo.

Time dragged to the monotonous tick of the case clock on the mantel. Grace could neither rouse herself to settle to work, nor concentrate her mind upon what might possibly be occurring over at the Black Horse. All the activity in her head revolved around the sensation of loneliness that grew upon her until the quiet of the house became too unnerving to be borne.

Only when Jemima came flying into the parlour in a state of terrified panic, did Grace realise that she had screamed aloud.

CHAPTER TEN

The maid rushed to the table and stared at her. “What is it, Miss Grace? Are you hurt? What happened?”

Grace shook her head. “Nothing.”

“But you screeched something horrid, Miss Grace!”

“I’m sorry.” She tried to explain. “It’s the silence. I can’t bear it!”

Jemima was frowning in perplexity. “Silence?”

“Pay no heed to me,” said Grace wearily. “I am not myself.”

“No, and no wonder!” The maid stood biting her lip for a moment. Then she nodded with determination. “I’d best go to East Hall and fetch Mrs Lamport to you.”

Grace put out a hand, apprehension flooding her. “Don’t leave me here alone!”

Jemima began to look frightened. A reminder of duty came tapping at the walls of Grace’s mind. She drew a shuddering breath and took hold of the maid’s fingers.

“Jemima, I need a little time. I can’t — I can’t get used to him not being here.”

The maid’s hand tightened around hers. For the first time in their dealings, she plonked herself into a chair at the table in a companionable way. Compassion sounded in her voice.

“There, there, dearie. I won’t go nowhere. And don’t you fret none, Miss Grace. He ain’t gone for long, you mark my words. Mister Henry will be back, and that right speedily.”

A faint sob caught in Grace’s throat. “If only you may be right!”

“You’ll see. There ain’t no Englishman going to hand him over to them murdering Frenchies, I’m telling you.”

But what if the Frenchies got to him while he was in custody? But Grace did not say it. Expressing her fear had lessened the frozen feeling that had held her in thrall. She disengaged her hand, and summoned up a smile. “Thank you, Jemima, you comfort me.”

“So I should hope, miss.” The girl stood up. “Now, I’m going to poach a couple of eggs and put them on toast for you, and I won’t hear of you refusing to eat them. You ain’t had nothing inside you all morning ’cepting tea, and I’ll warrant it’s hunger as is making you downhearted.” She started off, and then appeared to think better of it. “You come along o’ me, Miss Grace. It’s that warm in the kitchen, and noisy enough for anyone. What’s more, I can see you eat it all up, and no argy-bargy.”

Grateful for the maid’s gentle bullying, Grace allowed herself to be ushered into the kitchen, where she sat at the deal table and listened to Jemima’s inconsequent chatter as she threw eggs into a pan of boiling water and set a slice of bread to toast on the grate. The sense of isolation, together with the icy feeling in her limbs, began to leave her.

By the time she had been cajoled into eating nearly all the food, Grace felt a good deal more her usual self, and able, when Mab put in an appearance later in the afternoon, to hold her own against the barrage of motherly concern, couched as ever in the form of groans and complaint.

“I’d have come over long since, did I know as the wretched fellow were still here. Reuben said as he were intending to leave two days since. And when I heard as that search party didn’t find hide nor hair of him, I suspicioned as he’d made his way elsewhere, and good riddance!”