Chapter 8
“Ye did me great untruth, and there was no cause why ye should do so.”
Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur
The carriage drew to a halt behind a tall, narrow house of weathered gray stone that blended seamlessly with the overcast French sky.
Henri peered through the window at the nondescript building, noting how it appeared deliberately unremarkable.
No coat of arms adorned the walls; no elaborate ironwork decorated the windows.
It was the sort of place chosen to not attract attention.
Lord Trenwith stepped down first, then turned to assist her from the carriage.
For a moment, Henri considered crying out, drawing attention from any passersby who might witness her plight.
But as she glanced around the narrow lane, she realized how futile such an attempt would be.
They were clearly in some sort of service alley, hidden from the main thoroughfares.
More importantly, she was now in France, where English law held no sway and her cries for help would likely be met with blank stares or, worse, indifference.
As Lord Trenwith’s hand touched hers to help her down, Henri found herself reluctantly remembering his proposal of marriage.
Whatever his motives for kidnapping her, however ill-advised his methods, he had offered her his name and title.
A man intent on true harm would hardly make such an offer.
The thought brought her little comfort, but it did suggest that her immediate safety was not in jeopardy.
She would have to wait this out. Bide her time, gather information, and look for an opportunity to escape or negotiate her freedom when the timing was right.
Mr. Tyne led them through a plain wooden door into what was clearly the servants’ entrance of the house.
The narrow corridor beyond was dimly lit and smelled of cooking fires and lye soap.
Henri caught glimpses of a kitchen to one side, where she could hear the quiet bustle of domestic activity, but Mr. Tyne hurried them quickly past and up a narrow staircase.
“Miss Bigsby,” Mr. Tyne said as they climbed, his speech tight with barely suppressed anxiety. “Welcome to La Maison Grise. I must ask you to understand that these arrangements are … temporary. Accommodation has not been prepared for you, but everything necessary will be provided for your comfort.”
The Gray House, indeed.
Henri said nothing, saving her breath for the steep climb, only noting minutes later that Lord Trenwith had left them.
The staircase went on forever, winding upward through the heart of the house until they reached what must have been the very top floor.
Mr. Tyne opened the door to a small spartanly furnished room tucked beneath the eaves.
“I regret the modest nature of the quarters,” Mr. Tyne continued, clearly uncomfortable with his role as her gaoler. “A maid will be along shortly to assist you and provide you with a meal. I trust you will find everything … adequate.”
Henri stepped into the room and heard the unmistakable sound of the key turning in the lock behind her. She was well and truly trapped now, locked in an attic room in a foreign country with no hope of immediate rescue.
Her thoughts threatened to drown her as they flittered to her family.
Miss Dulwich would have informed her mother what she had been doing at Danbury’s.
Mama might even think to speak with Signor di Bianchi, whom Henri’s lady’s maid would recall from her attendance during their examination of Uncle Reggie’s Caxton edition.
Eleanor Bigsby, being an intelligent woman, would likely guess Henri had been taken unwillingly because she had no mode of transport to leave the estate and no reason to run off.
But beyond that, Miss Dulwich would have no knowledge to point to where Henri might be.
Nay, no rescue could come from that quarter.
It was up to Lord Trenwith to see to his urgent business and then release her as he had promised he would.
In the meanwhile, she could not contemplate her family’s distress without feeling overwhelmed by anguish, so she put the thoughts aside until the time came to deal with it.
The space was small but clean, furnished with a narrow bed, a washstand, a little table, and a single chair positioned near the window.
The walls were bare except for a simple crucifix hanging above the bed, and the floor was covered with worn wooden planks.
There was a bit of a chill, but being on the upper floor, some heat must be rising from below to ward off the worst of the cold.
It was the sort of room that might house a servant or perhaps a governess, functional but devoid of any comfort or personality.
Henri moved to the window, hoping to gain some sense of her location.
The glass was old and slightly warped, but it provided a view of the city spread out below.
From her high vantage, she could see the distinctive outline of a harbor in the distance, with tall masts rising like a forest of bare trees against the gray sky.
It had to be the Calais harbor. She cursed herself for not paying closer attention during their journey, for not asking Lord Trenwith directly where he was taking her. But then again, would he have answered honestly?
The harbor view told her she was in a major port city, which meant there would be ships traveling back to England regularly.
If she could find a way to escape this room, if she could reach the docks and find passage …
Henri pushed the thought away. Such plans were premature until she better understood her situation.
She turned her attention to the room itself, examining every surface for potential weaknesses.
The door was solid oak with heavy iron hinges that showed no signs of looseness.
The window was too small to climb through, even if she could somehow survive the four-story drop to the alley below.
The walls were thick stone, offering no hope of breaking through to adjacent rooms.
Henri sank into the single chair, feeling the weight of her situation settle upon her like a heavy cloak. She was well and truly trapped, dependent upon Lord Trenwith’s mercy and whatever mysterious business had brought them to France.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her brooding.
The key turned, and a woman entered carrying a wooden tray.
She was perhaps thirty years of age, with dark hair neatly braided beneath a simple cap and the sort of pale complexion that spoke of long hours spent indoors.
Her brown dress was plain but well-maintained, marking her clearly as a servant in this household.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” the maid said quietly, keeping her eyes downcast as she set the tray on the small table near the window. “Je reviendrai bient?t avec des couvertures et des affaires de toilette.”
Henri’s French was sufficient to understand that the woman would return shortly with blankets and washing things, but when she tried to engage her in conversation, the maid simply shook her head and hurried toward the door.
“Excusez-moi,” Henri called after her. “Comment vous appelez-vous?”
The woman paused, glancing back with obvious reluctance. Then she was gone, the door closing firmly behind her and the key turning once more in the lock.
Henri lifted the cloth covering the tray and found simple but substantial fare. Fresh bread, still warm from the oven, a portion of beef bouillon, and a small pot of butter accompanied by a cup of wine. The aroma rising from the food made her stomach clench with sudden, sharp hunger.
Only then did Henri fully realize how exhausted she was.
The past two days had been a whirlwind of fear, confusion, and physical ordeal—the threatening villain, the kidnapping, the terrifying carriage ride, the storm-tossed Channel crossing and wretched seasickness, and now this imprisonment in a foreign country.
Her body ached in places she had not known could ache, and her mind felt sluggish with fatigue.
Moreover, now that the worst of the seasickness had passed, she found herself genuinely ravenous. She could not remember when she had last eaten a proper meal, and the simple food before her looked more appealing than the finest feast.
Henri ate with enthusiasm. The bouillon was hearty and well-seasoned, the bread fresh and satisfying.
As she ate, she found her spirits lifting slightly.
Whatever Lord Trenwith’s ultimate plans, whatever strange game was being played out around her, at least she was being treated with basic consideration.
As she finished the last of the bread, Henri heard the maid’s footsteps on the stairs once more. True to her word, the maid returned with an armload of clean blankets and a pitcher of steaming water for washing.
“Merci,” Henri said as the maid efficiently arranged the blankets on the narrow bed. “Can you tell me where we are?” she inquired in her passable French.
But the other woman merely shook her head again, her expression stiff as she completed her tasks and departed without another word.
Alone once more, Henri considered her options. The warm water beckoned invitingly, and the clean blankets promised the first comfortable rest she would enjoy since this nightmare began. Her practical side whispered that she would need all her strength for whatever trials lay ahead.
Rest now, gather my resources, and face tomorrow’s challenges with a clearer head.
Henri moved to the washstand and began the process of making herself presentable once more.
As she cleaned away the grime and salt spray of their journey, she caught sight of her reflection in the small mirror above the basin.
Her honey-brown hair was disheveled, her amber eyes shadowed with fatigue, and her traveling dress was hopelessly wrinkled from their adventures.