Page 67 of The Count’s Charade

“Yes, and I must take them to Sir James without any loss of time. I know now why Henri hesitated to use them. If Loriot is permitted to respond to what is in the documents, I dare say Sir James may not accept the truth.”

“But how do you know it is the truth?”

“That, Jemima,” said Grace, smiling, “has all to do with faith.”

“Faith, miss?”

“In the man I love.”

The maid eyed her a moment, and then nodded decisively. “Right, then, you’d best make haste. Shall I come with you?”

“No, I don’t need you.”

She stomped to the front door, followed by Jemima, bent upon ensuring Grace survived what she evidently considered a hazardous journey. “Take it slow now, Miss Grace, do. It’s a fair mile to Rainham, and you ain’t used to walking no distance. If you feel as you’re tiring, you stop and take a rest. It won’t make no difference if you get there a bit later, and you’ll be no manner o’ use if you’re half dead with exhaustion.”

“You sound just like Mab, Jemima.”

The maid let out a giggle. “Well, and if I do, that ain’t nothing to wonder at. It’s hot at hand you are, Miss Grace, and no mistake. I’d like fine to see how Mister Henry manages you, if —”

“Don’t!” interrupted Grace, abruptly hurt. She stepped through the door that Jemima was holding open, and turned. “Don’t run away with the notion the future is all settled, Jemima.”

“But —”

“Yes, I know what you are going to say, but you are wrong. Mister Henry likes me very well, but that is all. I will not allow him to be entrapped in a marriage which he cannot fail to regret.”

With which, she stepped off the porch and stomped down the path, setting off into the lane before the maid had opportunity to respond. She was not to be beguiled into a pointless argument.

Jemima’s romantic notions bore scant relation to the truth. But then she did not know — and truth to tell, Grace had not herself noticed it at the time — that in all the passion she and Henri had shared, he had made no reference to love.

Her hip had begun aching long before she reached Rainham, and the built-up boot felt uncomfortably tight, as it had never done before. But then the boot was not made for trudging a mile in open country. Neither was Grace, she reflected. She was hot despite the dullness of the day, and suffering, though the road was relatively even, with but few ruts at this season worn in by the wheels of many carts. The boot felt heavier and heavier, and it was obvious her shortened leg was not up to the strain.

Taking Jemima’s advice, she rested several times. But besides the grass verge that lay alongside the flat marshland, there was nowhere to sit. Often Grace wished for a passing carter who might have taken her up. She met only workmen walking, and few at that.

The thought of what she was going to do buoyed her spirits, and kept her struggling gamely on. At last the first cottages of Rainham came into sight, and she willed herself onward despite the grinding pain in her hip. Several persons regarded her curiously, but Grace had little hope she would fail to be identified from her pronounced limp. Doubtless the story of her unprecedented appearance would be doing the rounds before nightfall.

By the time she finally fetched up at the Black Horse, all she could think about was the prospect of sitting down and the desire for a long cool drink. Entering the hostelry by the main door, she accosted the first person she saw — a waiter by his apron and the tray he was carrying — and asked for Wooferton.

The waiter stared at her. “He ain’t here, miss.”

Grace’s mind went blank. “Not here?”

The fellow shook his head. All at once, Grace felt the onset of fatigue.

“Pray, can you fetch a chair? Or lead me to where I may sit down?”

Taking in her condition, the waiter pushed through a door to one side of the hall. “This way, miss.”

Grace found herself in a roomy apartment, furnished with several long tables and benches. Staggering to the first bench, she plonked down, leaning heavily on the table.

For several moments she was fully occupied in getting her breath, and overcoming the urge to sink into oblivion. In the recesses of her mind, the dull ache at her hip impinged, but was superseded by the desperate need to assuage her thirst. “Water, if you please,” she managed, dragging her head up.

To her immediate relief, she found the waiter had anticipated her. He was busy pouring from a pitcher at one of the tables, and in a moment Grace was drinking deep. Wetting a corner of her pocket handkerchief, she dabbed it over her face, and the sensation of intense exhaustion began to leave her.

She found the waiter hovering, a frown creasing a young brow. Grace smiled. “Thank you.”

“Is it Miss Dovercourt?”

“Indeed it is,” Grace said, relieved. “Pray, where is Mr Wooferton?”